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Prose Poetry Nostalgia Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Nostalgia

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Farewell

                      If I forget you, would you remember me?
                       If I still love you, would you still love me?
                      
                      If I fall when old, would you lift me up?
                       If I sleep, would you sleep by me?
                      
                          If I run away, would you follow me?
                       But If I stay, would you stay with me?
                     
                        If I see you, would you recognize me?
                               I know you would Not.
                        
                           That is why, I wish I would whisper 
                               And not hear myself. 
                         
                                   I wish I could cry 
                                   not feel my tears
                                    nor feel my fears.
                               Tonight, my final Farewell.
                  
                                     Therese Bacha
                                     24 August 2014


Details | Prose Poetry | |

March

March

Sweet, bitter March,
last year tears haven’t dried out up 
till now and yet you
are already at the door,
knocking lightly!

Sadness is still flapping over my head like
a frantic goose, what have you brought with you
to silence its primordial honking?!

I can see your hunched silhouette against the wall
Of my waiting, standing awash with shame,
wringing your empty hands desperately!

O' March , anniversary of tears and smiles,
Memories are pacing around nostalgically, sniffing
the withered roses, leafing through the pages of books
trying to put the haphazard leftovers of a once
beautiful image into shape…

The hurricane that accompanied you once
has subdued, leaving behind a nerve-tearing silence and
a deracinated life!

Don’t wonder; rootless hopes are still roving
over the corpse of a long dead dream, taking
strength from the ever pulsating stars…

March, March , embracer of birth and death,
the breath of eternity has abandoned
your rosy-cheeked child..
The resonance of its happy giggles are
haunting the vacant hours of night, sending me
reeling of longing!

Its face emerges from among the clouds of years, an angelic
Vision imprinted on the face of a mourning moon!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

THE RAIN by Anna Lo P

"As I watch the blue skies
 Suddenly turned into gray
 Darkness easily surrounds 
 Their clouds, covered in haze.

 The rain will fall again, I say
 A nature's moment I dismay
 Raindrops will soon touch the ground
 The sad feeling, again I'll be hound.

 Splattering rain, the sound that haunts
 Sweet and sad memories of the man
 Taunting me to remember once again
 The love once lost, never be back again

 Every drop of rain that falls, I pain
 Each drop it falls, my heart is in vain
 "Try to listen" to the rain, he once said
 'Tis like a last goodbye, could not hear I said. 

 The sound of the crying heart, I still hear
 The sound of a weeping soul, I can hear
 The silent tears that they weep,
 The silent scream that echos so deep.

 Listen to every drop of rain
 To it's agony, vain, pain, 
 Listen to the rain as it falls, maybe
 There is your love, every drop after all...xoxo


Details | Prose Poetry | |

a fair day

It was a fair day for silence.

The sun had risen up courtly, almost mechanically,
Like a marionette on the strings of a puppeteer.
With the sun came Heat, wrathful to have been woken at such an hour.
As if avenging its early rise, 
Heat caused oppression, 
Discomfort and confusion 
Upon the innocent day.

It was a fair day for exclusion.

Only one was oblivious to the relentless heat,
He sat there motionless, lifeless and corpse-like.
They would glance at him nonchalantly.
He was just a piece of the scenery, 
Always had been there, 
Always would be there, 
Invisible.

It was a fair day for neglect.

Some say once he had been aware,
But life had hollowed him out, 
Left him a shell, 
Unmoving, 
Unblinking.
The day progressed, the light dimmed, 
It was as if fate and destiny had led him to this moment.
If anyone had cared to look, they may have noticed a glint in his eye.
He liked the sunset.

It was a fair day for an end.

The sun slowly made its way back home.
Heat gradually left, bored with the sun’s absence.
Silence was once more.
The sun closed its eyes. 
The moon began its regime over the obeying night sky.

It was a fair day for sweet nothing.

He still sat there, 
But no one knew.
So was he still alive, 
If no one saw him die?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

1959

I spent the year of 1959                                                                                                                 In England with Al                                                                                                                          And the world was mine then                                                                                                                  Al's world anyway                                                                                                                           He taught me that  one English penny was twice as big as an american one                                  And things like that are important when your ten                                                                           When your ten you believe in King Arthur and the Lady of the lake                                                 And you believe in people like Al too                                                                                                   Because they always know what to say and when to say it                                                                                                  Now the year is 1969 and I am two times ten                                                                                                     Never to be just ten again                                                                                                            Because now I've learned that even kings have moments of weakness                                      Tables crack in two                                                                                                                         Ladies cry when you leave them                                                                                                   And small boys do too


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Seaside Memories

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

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

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

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




Details | Prose Poetry | |

MOTHER TONGUE

We had a steel-coiled fence 
that kept us apart;  kept in purity,
spoke out in purity.

We played Barbies in a tree that
bordered each side, not knowing
it had a
zone.

Our Barbie world was created; 
dresses hung on branches
little mirrors for wee doll hands;
leaves assigned our closets.

I gibbered and you jabbered, and
the worst thing happened, I learnt
English, but what happened to your
French?

Language traveled through the holes
of our steel-coiled fence.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Memories Beyond the Door

Fly away from the memories
The ghosts of past trailed, never stop to chase
A journey finally brings me back
Back to the same door that I used to open

The breezes that I never forgotten
The odor of the hall that never change
I stood at the edge of my gate's sanity, the lips of an old trip
Be ready for the first gusts of my treasures' pasts

Vacant room is just like what I've thought
No passer, no shadow, only me in this big hollow
I reached the dusty quilt, cover up my self
This is my comfort zone, while I sit among a loss

Tears of yearn never melt, I assume it has dried
Maybe it goes to some other places
Where nobody or nothing could even see or realized 

Missing out this place, I think this is too much
The reflection of my bitter sweet memories reeled out
Playing the same scene at the same place where I stood
Where I can see those people who once ever filled this empty room

Those people who now fill the empty space of heaven's room


April 29, 2013
7th place
Memories Beyond The Door Free Poetry Contest
Sponsor	Constance La France


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Reflections of You

I caress the blooms of the lilac bush and breathe their sweet fragrant breath. Here in my garden where spring has risen from the melting heart of winter’s death. And when a gentle breeze  kisses my face, I am simply blown away, to that magical place, where you wait for me, along the Fundy Bay.

Bare foot, I skip down a Granite paved road, flanked with ditches where morning glories grow, as I move  through a mist of ocean brine, streaked with rainbows that melt in the morning sunshine and drip from the blooms of a every Sea Salt rose.

 The house - its asphalt shingles, sparkling in many shades of grey - stands firmly  on its hardwood pillars buried deep down in the clay,  the same clay I mould  into a tiny earthen vase, that joins the jars of  pollywogs and dandelion garlands, all lined up on the old root- cellar doors, where I play. 

 And in a cloud of purple perfusion, again, I breathe the breath from the lilac bush that grows there, beside the brook, as those white lace curtains flutter out the kitchen window, and  beat against the window frame -  fanning the heat from those fresh baked apple pies - as another tear falls from my eye.


Then,  from a distant pine, I hear the  white throated sparrow singing, her melancholy tune and the clap of the screen door as I step into that room, a child again breathing the breath from a lilac bloom. 


“Mom….. ……………. I’m home!”


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Coffee Time for Two

The cups are on the table 
As the coffee starts to brew
Two flowers in the middle
Now all I need is you 
.
You called me up this morning
Said you'd be stopping by
My heart started racing
I really don't know why
.
I guess I'm just excited
To share this time with you
I can think of nothing better 
Than gazing in your eyes of blue
.
It's been almost an hour now
Since you were on the way 
Wish that you would call me
So my mind won't start to stray
.
Our coffee time's so special
It's where our love began
So many words where spoken
As our future we did plan
.
Now it's been two hours
Still no knock upon my door 
I'm feeling a kind of emptiness
As my "second cup" I pour
.
I sit and watch the clock hands
As the hours pass me by 
Even the petals on the flowers 
Seem so sad they start to cry 
.
My cup is now half empty
Your cup is barren and it's cold 
I feel a familiar feeling
There's a coldness starting to unfold
.
We've tried so many times
Perhaps this time is our last
Maybe thinking of our future
Is just something in our past
 
Though the petals have all fallen
 I'll keep the table set for two
For our coffee time is "special"
It's when I fell in love with you


Details | Prose Poetry | |

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

An Ordinary Mirrored Lid

An ordinary rectangular wooden mirrored lid, paint-chipped and worn, sits in my bathroom, the mirrored part having gotten spotted over time. I often hold it up in front of me, faced away from the bathroom mirror to check my hair and clothing from behind. Sometimes I take it in my gym bag to check myself after workouts. Other times it has served as a receptacle for small items such as pins or pencils. The remnants of two gold latches, flattened now and a bit rusty, prove that this common lid was once attached to something else; it was a lovely jewelry box, for which the mirror served a definite purpose. When the box was open, the mirror, upright, reflected a tiny ballerina dancing on a center platform to the tinkle of a pretty tune. No one would guess the sweet scene this old mirrored lid once reflected nor the many childhood treasures it covered, so why do I still hang on to it? However ordinary it is today, this bulky mirrored lid gives me some small comfort. . . . If I try, I can almost recall the times I opened its precious box to see a ballerina twirl, accompanied by that sweet music from my youth.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Typewriter

Pumped

Reams of paper sit upon my desk accordioned untidily, dimpled where the cat stood or sat too long. The wastepaper basket was full of crumbled balls, reflecting the topography of the Nepali  adventure  I am trying to re-count. The heavily grained desk of golden oak supports a range of dictionaries and thesaurus’s, any one of which was heavy enough to use as a doorstop in a windstorm. An old Underwood typewriter sits, holding court, in the midst of all this, enamel black, with chrome edged keys and struts which depress at the tap of a fingertip. The radio blares, God Bless the Child Who’s Got His Own…as I formulate the saga of a heroine seeker, lead by two caramel colored Nepali boys, toward the foothills of the Himalayian Mountains.

The spindles holding the black ribbon snag in the clip-like opening which holds them taunt. Adjusting the tape turns my nails blue-black. I brush the hair from my eyes decorating the tip of my nose. Dirty business this writing. I tear another sheet from the rubber roller and crumple it with a sigh. “Damn, irascible machine don’t you have a soul? Give Mama something! Anything” I whine. 

Scared by the abruptness of my outburst, and the carriage's leap left, the scared-y-cat is propelled to the floor, sending a half-stack of unsullied paper to ground, covering my patent-leather pumps.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bKNtP1zOVHw
Enjoy...while you read..Billy Holiday


Details | Prose Poetry | |

THE SWEET SCENT OF TIMELESSNESS

Trapped in a perfect world, what does time 
mean?  Wait, nothing is permanent in this
wicked world.

Stay or go.  Which way did you decide?
Is that your hand reaching out to me,
Shall I grab your wrist; wait, this is fine.

The sweet scent of timelessness circles
over my head spinning me heedless.
Moods float keeping my goodness in
place;  there, now I can see your face
floating on the canvas circled with a
brush in all the grand colors.

The thrush of ochre, gray and sand.
Tips of green highlight the tops of
trees sitting against a sky splashed
in blue hue.

I feel you there pulling my hand
spinning me around and around
through years of you and me,
burning candles from the heart,
aroma swerving through the soul.

We set apart, not going somewhere
flames burn to keep you a part of the
great mountain that only you could see.

I wake in scented timelessness every day.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

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.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

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.		 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Who i am

Who i am

Gazing at the mirror observing what I see,
all might not be perfect, but it all belongs to me.
In the eyes of the mirror, a woman beckoned me,
when I looked at her from head to toe, I just love what I see.
 There might have been a part of me, that to me was never known,
 i would have search to find it, if I had only known. 
This love for myself that was embedded inside confused an approaching frown
 and the moment I spent to discover myself, my world Turned upside-down.


I was afraid of people saying, "Who does she think she is?"
 Now i have the courage to stand and say "this is who i am".
 Never will i follow the majority of living a life of constant duplicity,
 as a successful rebellion, take me as I am, or watch me walk away.
 What makes me, me is my originality, with lots of sincerity
 and I cherish this freedom which lies in being me.

The eyes of the society might not project its light on me,
but never will this bring me down or makes me think less of me.
 No external source will fulfill my void, within me i find my eternal joy.
 Known life's is too short to be self- obsessed but when my eyes sent me a rainbow
 filled with gentle colors that project confident within me, 
my world seems brighter each time i opened up the window of my face. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Old Soul, Young Heart

This poem has been deleted due to possible publication.


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 | |

Honey's Light, Gold and Mahogany - Home

Dad looking at that weatherboard house, Old Tooters home,
A thrifty man.. us to him did his brother send,
Saying that the place could do with a mend;
The roof had red patches of pitted rust, the cost agreed, an aluminium spray, as if were new!
A bulge I saw like a big brown bag, ‘those eaves with bees were occupied’ my Dad said,
A bee man was arranged for tomorrow morn.
Off we set early that day to arrive at 8, for to watch the bees and the man perform,
He wore dungarees and a netted hat, and held a pot of smoke as well as that.
He pointed its puffs, ‘the bees were calm’, that’s what Dad said,
The man then moved this Italian swarm, they were productive he said; moreover than the norm,
Before he went saying no to pay, as these bees alone did make his day.
He pointed to the now vacant hive, saying there would 'bee' honey, most pure inside.
He told us cut it clean in two, the lightest colour  would be the new.'.
He then drove off us to leave, me, my Dad and Tooter made three.

We cut it through as we'd been told, there was honey like sunlight, then a ring of gold, the core was darker of long months ago, from each we ate squeezing the comb, it fairly gushed upon the tongue.
The first seemed sweetest, the lightest one, the gold was more subtle onto the palate,
The darker ring also was sweet yet with a herb like twist; it did us treat.
Old Tooter said there was a reason.
For ‘twas gathered in the springs plant life season.
We ate a lot till we felt queasy,
Then Dad said work would make our stomachs more easy.
We set to work upon the tin, scrubbing back rust, and knocking roof nails in;
Then dad spun the flywheel on our new Briggs & Stratton machine, 
Two hours later the roof was all silvered out, Old Tooter exclaimed it was better no doubt.
What Dad had promised was accomplished to the better; the old guy even wrote us his thanks in a letter,
‘Twas 40 years ago that day; on that I ponder as I write away..
Thinking on life, on seasons.. on reasons; just where is 'home?' where does it lie?
Under an immediate or distant sky?
Is it a street, a house, City, or shack?
Is it where you are safe from harm?
I'd say yes, with close good family, like that day on Tooters farm:
I look out a window its now dark night,
Tomorrow brings yet; the soft dawn light.
As I think, I recall a yeasty savoury smell,
Mom’s currant scones fresh baked from the oven; and risen well.
For me all these things are together tied
With what is home real deep inside!
And I know I'll never be parted, from that memory's treasure,
Where love was poured in generous measure..
So if I need to know of if, what, when and where?
I'll take a walk back up memory's stair...
Back to that day of sweetness fresh from the comb,
To say loud and clear; (honey I'm home).

©Joe Maverick 12-01-2014


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Glistening Silver

Glistening Silver

Glistening silver on water’s edge like thousands of diamonds for my hair - 
Snow covered mountains hide summer flowers of purple, pink and gold
while black bear and deer search for left over apples from October’s harvest.
Ellijay is crisp and cleaned to perfection by nature’s wind and cold - 
The cows hide inside the old, red barn up the hill.
Hickory trees barren of fruit, yet a lone woodpecker flits back and forth looking -
searching for substance from the thick bark only it can penetrate. 
My prayer for snow covered mountains has been answered.
Seventeen years of Florida sun has scorched my throat and mind.
I wanted to see New York snow in North West Georgia -
One full Sunday of snow falling for my eyes to fill
 in the glorious beauty of winter’s wonder.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Memory

MEMORY

In the city,
The sun often wears a veil of grey mourning,
Woven of smog and dust.

In the evening,
The stars retreat from the lights
Of the city far below.

Far from the city, 
I walk the beach, sun hot on my skin.
Waves wash cool and white over my feet.

Seagulls dive and snatch,
The remains of the fisherman’ catch
And the kite glides and falls like a stone to earth.

The sea rolls on and in.
An endless murmur,
Through the days and the nights.

My eyes, accustomed to this light
Of sky, of sand, of dry bush land.
Watch the sails of a lone boat.

And I think of many things, as I walk along this beach.
And as always my thoughts return to you.
You with eyes the colour of the sky.

I wonder where you are in the city
So far away from my world, from your world,
Of sea and sand.

I think of you and the distance in between us.
Distance that as time has passed,
Has grown too far to breach.

I know this, but still I think of you,
As I retrace my footprints,
In the dampness of the sand.

JM  2012



Details | Prose Poetry | |

I met you in my journey

I met you in my journey.
Over cups of coffee. Over conversations.
Over laughter. Pure nuisance.
Over smiles. And feeling of freedom.
Pure happiness. And amusement.
Over sadness. And pain.
That you stuck through.
 
I met you in my journey.
Unexpected. And I loved you.
Over the hours. The minutes.
And the days. Through lonliness.
Through the emptiness. Through the confusion
In your head. Through the feelings
That no one else understood.
 
I met you in my journey.
Lonely soul I was. Just like you.
Fighting through emotions. A rebel.
Transient like rainbow. Forever, I knew not.
My other self. I found in you.
Through the fleeting nights and days.
That made the best of my life.
 
I met you in a  journey.
Which ended. Long ago
And I look back. And wonder.
If I ever cross your mind. Like you do.
I do not know where you are now. Or how.
If you are happy, loved. But I know
In my memories, we will meet again.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

BEAUTIFUL THINGS

Some things are lost along the line
Some things, beautiful and fine
Driving down the lone road to the stream in my hamlet
It’s like yesterday; like catching birds from their nest
I giggled as I drove by
Mothers breast feeding babies and singing lullaby
Naked boys rolling condemned tires, and
Ripped virgins with little cloths coverings, as attires

I giggled as I drove by. It’s just like yesterday
I remember Jerome and others as we gathered to play
There was the moonlight rendezvous
Where we all gathered, boys, and girls, all of us
There was the tales by the moonlight,
Ancestral heritages, sacrifices and the Lion’s might
The Lion’s might, yet he falls beneath the crafty tortoise
I still can hear the choruses; I hear my youthful voice
I loved folklore songs. Wars songs for strong sons

Let me try seeing if I can still sing one more;
Yes! I still can sing “Omalingwo”
Omalingwo, Omalingwo tee …… Omalingwo
Omalingwo, Omalingwo nwam…… Omalingwo
Omalingwo, Omalingwo dia …… Omalingwo
Nne nei di na Otutu-aja-o………..Omalingwo
Elikwue ma yu atuna ngwo ji ……Omalingwo
Ngwo, ngwo onye oma………….Omalingwo

My God, I feel new!
I can still sing it! Oh God I knew!
Omalingwo! Story of the child of a deprived mother
Jealous king’s wives over ready for murder
Murder and deprivation if that will give them a son
To sit on the king’s throne and shine forth like the sun
Story of good over evil. Omalingwo!
A deprived mother’s son.

I giggled as I drove along,
Remembering my tiny breasts, when they formed
And more fortunate girls laughing me to scorn
I remember these things till sadness beclouded me
I am fully grown now; nostalgia overshadow me
My age mates, plus me, all gone to the cities
We can’t assemble again, just like broken pot in pieces
Oh! The Eve’s tempting apple of white collar jobs

I heard Jerome lived and then died in Jos
Killed by religious rioters with missions unjust.
I heard Nwasombia is a head dresser is Lagos
At 52 and still searching? Celibacy is obvious
I heard Nosike is in aviation, head of pilots
Even Chima is now in parliament in Cyprus
Chima, who spoke big English like “opprobrious”

My age mates, plus me, all gone to the cities
No more gatherings, just like broken pot in pieces
Still driving along the lone road to the hamlet stream
Still thinking of beautiful things
The beautiful hamlet serene things.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Walking to School

A walk to school out of the backdoor, through the homemade back gate, through a narrow alley,
Cars parked on the curb, guarded by paraffin lamps, no garages, no parking area,
Walking down my road, past the bully's house, all is very, very quiet, careful
Then the front door opens, a big kid comes running and chases me down the road.

Near the end of my street was a large piece of wasteland, called "the logs"
Huge logs cut down hundreds of years ago, grey, split, tall trees chopped down,
Stinging nettles in large clumps, cars abandoned, a play ground for children,
Into a road full of bungalows, the posh side, people looking through curtains.

About a mile down this road, there was more wasteland, with a muddy shortcut,
Shoes covered in mud, trying to clean them with an old bit of paper, no good,
Out of the wooded shortcut, past the entrance of a railway, through a tunnel,
On the other side, up steps was a sweet shop, looked through window, no money.

Past the bank on to a main road, told many times to look left and right, careful,
Walking up another street, then a short cut through, an old mansion falling apart,
Down the coke covered road, into a road where huge flats were being built, ugly flats.
The into my school play ground, seeing class mates, queuing up to go into the school.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

''kissing sally in the smoking-room''

listen, the world has changed plenty since you’ve last shown your face around here. nowadays, a name is the last thing we learn, if we ever do learn it. flirting is boring, death is a dinner topic, happiness is strange. pain is good. things taste backwards — but oh, do they feel sweet. love and crime no longer compete for the gold: guess what sweetheart, they’ve got it, and they’re sleeping together.

oh come on, don’t look at me like that.

you’ve always underestimated your own heart, you know. and mine, for that matter. you can get away with a lot of things with a heart now — i suppose that’s another thing that’s changed. remember how we used to be under its mercy? remember how we couldn’t cope with the traffic of our bodies until it finally sighed some soft, silly sentence?

how long have you been gone, anyway?

no, no, that’s not how it works. it isn’t really a question of whether i missed you or not. that word doesn’t mean anything anymore. it’s become quite the popular prop. i don’t have a word for what it’s been like while you were—

what? what do you mean i’ve changed? if there’s anyone who’s changed it’s you! i haven’t changed for the sake of entering this world: look, darling, we’re all thieves of space and time, and i’m just one of many trying to survive.

but…yes, i do suppose those days were nice. in their own way. when we were buried treasure. when closeness was something you had to earn first.

hey, you’re smiling. 

i’m not kidding — you really are. should i stop?

well, i can’t say i imagined you’d be back here again.

you want to know something, though? alright, i’ll tell you.

if there’s one thing i’m glad hasn’t changed at all, it’s how we wake up. it doesn’t matter what happened hours ago. forget about what your skin remembers. can you believe it, we still manage to wake up! after all this!

i think a lot of it has to do with how competitive, how scared everyone feels. because after that, even after that, there’s still that pleasant feeling of shared space. and then the silent sunrise. and then the beautiful morning.

i know.

i know, i know.

and yeah, you’re still smiling.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Her Dying - a memory -

She had a stroke six weeks before
and slept downstairs
'So they could keep an eye on her
- my lovely grandmother, Elizabeth.
I would whisper
'Granny, are you alright?'
and be shushed out of the room.
On December 12th, 1961
she was dying.  They knelt around the bed
and said the Rosary.
May and Lizzie, their husbands and children,
cousins and neighbours, droning their prayers.
As she struggled to breathe:  loud then slow and slowing,
the candle flickered shadows on the wall.
Sad faces, some old and lined, anticipating
the arrival of the Monsignor - to give her Unction.
They hoped that she would live until he arrived.
'She had a good life - a long life' they said
'Eighty-Seven years'.
'But some people live to be a hundred!'
my thirteen year old self shouted back -
My mother and the nurse laid her out
on her big mahogany bed.
'The ritual gave me comfort'
Mam said later -
Best linens, starched and waiting
for this time - her habit - a dress especially made for death
Beads entwined in her dear fingers.
These preparations a ceremony of love and care
I wouldn't, couldn't look at her
They did -
I hated them for that.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

He fought his way back

The country picked the winner; 
     Fifty percentage where displeasure
      We fought the battle and we won
We knew within our heart, he was the right one

 The choices, the excuses, the misses,
   Mishaps and misfortune 
Hurricane, Sandy might or might not help Obama win
 However, not tonight we held each other 
And whisper we did it; and we did it again

Left wing, Right wing the views from the politic world
 Conservative vs. Liberal beliefs do we really care 
  Knowing what we know today.
 The people, the lines and the togetherness
    Made it worthwhile to cast those ballots 

 The clocks where going round and round
  Thousands of clicks our votes count up 
                                                        Not down
              His words the journey have been long
                  However, he fought his way back, 
                           Now it all work
                             Jack! All work, Jack!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Wash Away My Tears

I see the sail disappearing 
Upon the horizon blue.
Waves crashing on the shore 
As mind thinks back to you.

You are like the sail
That no longer do I see.
Seems that a waft of wind
Has taken you from me.

Was it not so long ago 
We sat upon this shore?
Words whisper of tomorrow. 
We'd be one forever more.

How we laughed and giggled,
 Waves washed between our toes
Words of I love you 
From our lips so easily flowed.

Our bodies so entangled
On the blanket we did share.
Made love under moonbeams
As waves threw mist up in the air.

That was forty years ago
We made love upon this shore.
Still have that blanket 
I will keep for ever more.

You are no longer with me 
The tide has taken you away.
But in my mind and heart
There you will never stray.

So come sit here beside me
Whisper I love you in my ear.
Hold me close and kiss me
And wash away my tears.



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Heroshima

Heroshima
Can ewe balance out those two final hits against the lives saved those that would have 
continued WAR on Asian Soil those days of hell of hurting men caught by bullits and the 
bayonets? Can just two bombs blasting death be counted as salvation won for all those 
young boys girls old men women who died instantly in two Atomic Blasts over those two 
cities of Japan. Nagasaki Heroshima eye have seen the END of time the BOOKS of GOD are 
open when the Dead Arrive. Arise all sleepers in those Graves can GOD usher in those 
SOULS into new places now to stay is there a place for JAPAN in Jesus Heaven? For those of 
us who sinned and suffered radiation burns lost our skins and mortal coils gone some died 
just screaming out in pain all normal living gone perhaps no time to say your HOLY NAMME 
of Jesus. Can they live there inside your heaven is it still possible that you forgive them for 
once upon the time it came to me today that a Just and Perfect GOD adjudges perfectly 
those in suffering words can not describe no time to utter words of salve; but deeds looked 
at made right by YOU salvation won given now to all. Eventide has come today to those 
whom tomb decay whom die threw no fault of there own. Just hit twice dumped down on 
Killed with anguish very slow. A special place in heaven for all those special people of Japan. 


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 | |

Reflection's of you

A new year always brings about reflection. Usually on the past year, but sometimes on many years gone by. Today I find myself reflecting and keenly missing my childhood. Times past that bring warm thoughts of visiting my favorite aunt and uncle in the country. Of waking up in the "blue room" and hearing muffled conversation at the breakfast table or the sweet humming of my aunt working in the kitchen as the smell of breakfast filled the air. Looking out the window to see the girls (white face cattle) grazing in the field. A little slice of heaven to this city girl with a country girls heart. At this time in life where I can see more years behind me than I can in front, the past comes sweeping over me with a great sense of loss. Loss of family, of innocence, of special, irreplaceable moments. But that loss holds beautiful and treasured memories that lent themselves to the warp and woof of the tapestry that was to become my life.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Power and Form

Power and Form

Are the two elements of a human life
Our words are sweet and sometimes sour 
However it’s a deadly trace throughout the human race
We say yes too often to satisfy our so-called rational minds
 
Is the life of a poet/poetess more fulfilling than a farmer?
Are we the expression of nature? 
Or  victims of a regimental affiliations 
We are as you know impossible and unpredictable
Because we all are crazy species

Power and form 
There is no more secret society
The secret of man is publicize under watchful eyes
The world looks into our families’ photos
Looking for the perfect quota, 
As each and everyone one of us partake in online revelry
Like an disciplinary cavalry

However, within our soul lies the truth.
I lost one year, one birthday
I rebirth and lost my power and position
Atlas!  I am in the lower realms
 Now I am in heaven


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Cloudburst

 In the black dirt where the worms flirt
 Trees root in the dark earth
 Fruit falls like a dead limb
 Rain pours like a soft hymn

 Boys whine, girls glow
 Ice forms as the wind blows
 The corn tilts, the hills moan
 The sky hides as the rocks groan

 Reeds sway, dogs bay
 A hungry beast enchants its prey
 The fog blurs, the grass stirs
 And through the mist the moon returns

 And where a tired body bends
 To taste a running stream
 A flood of pounding hailstones rends
 What rain and wind sweep clean

 Written by © Raven Drake


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Visit to Grandma

You're not only from Kings mtn., NC, but also a Henderson, if you remember a kind of
chunky older lady sitting at the table playing cards, dipping snuff and spittin' in a can
on the floor, playing smut while whistling "she'll be coming round the mtn", between
her top two middle teeth, looking over the rim of her glasses and cheating with Ed
Whitstine who was sitting across the table humming.  Lord, I miss my grandma.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Rainbows

She makes… rainbows sprout from her fingertips with every touch of my corpses flesh, her angelic
 presence, bringing sunshine to my cheek with lips unshaded, her kisses, were full of sun beamed 
pleasures and, all I could do was steal them, steal love from the heart of one whom I felt, I’d never be 
deserving of. Introducing life to the hands of one broken, tattered by his past and scared of the déjà 
vu. Only hoping that she, could wipe the waterfalls from his grassy planed face. When she did so much 
more with just a stare, she, penetrated his mind and made him fall so… so peaceful like. With truth only 
found in the way her hands serenaded his cheeks as her lips marinated his and we fade… into 
teardrops in the ocean, knowing I’d drown forever for a kiss on my corpse cheek just to know… that 
you’ll always love me and never hurt me… not like the others did. Fear is the death of bravery, but I’d 
soon go toe to toe with the rights to your eternity to prove that, we were made for each other. 
Carrying the cross for my own crucifixion if it’d show how much I love her. &you could pierce my body 
and all I’d bleed is the reasons I love her, then die and be reborn on the 23rd hour to prove that… I 
could never go a day without her. So I ask you, what else do I have to prove?


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 | |

CADD part two2

"Vision Zero" -- no more deaths from highway accidents. The idea was born in Sweden, where it's had spectacular success in reducing traffic fatalities. Now zeroing out all traffic fatalities must become an explicit U.S. and worldwide goal. Otherwise we have no prospect of taming the appalling roadway death toll -- 42,000 lives lost yearly in the United States, close to 1.2 million worldwide. THE LAW IS STATED FOR EACH AND EVERY DIFFERENT STATE IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.
 › Alabama DUI Law
 › Alaska DWI Law
 › Arizona DUI Law
 › Arkansas DWI Law

 › California DUI Law
 › Colorado DUI Law
 › Connecticut DUI Law
 › Delaware DUI Law

 › Florida DUI Law
 › Georgia DUI Law
 › Hawaii DUI Law
 › Idaho DUI Law

 › Illinois DUI Law
 › Indiana OWI Law
 › Iowa OWI Law
 › Kansas DUI Law

 › Kentucky DUI Law
 › Louisiana DWI Law
 › Maine OUI Law
 › Maryland DUI Law

 › Massachusetts OUI / DUI Law
 › Michigan DUI Law
 › Minnesota DWI Law
 › Mississippi DUI Law

 › Missouri DWI Law
 › Montana DUI Law
 › Nebraska DWI Law
 › Nevada DUI Law

 › New Hampshire DUI Law
 › New Jersey DWI Law 
 › New Mexico DUI Law
 › New York DWI Law

 › North Carolina DWI Law
 › North Dakota DUI Law
 › Ohio DUI Law
 › Oklahoma DUI Law

 › Oregon DUII Law
 › Pennsylvania DUI / DAI Law
 › Rhode Island OUI Law
 › South Carolina DUI Law

 › South Dakota DUI Law
 › Tennessee DUI Law
 › Texas DWI Law
 › Utah DUI Law

 › Vermont DUI Law
 › Virginia DUI Law
 › Washington DUI Law
 › District of Columbia DWI Law

 › West Virginia DUI Law
 › Wisconsin OWI Law
 › Wyoming DUI Law

It is hard to do the will of GOD and judge not a brother for what he eats or drinks but they THE LAW aer seeming smarter for they judge no content but amounts thereof. This is number twenty in my CharlaXTitles Cadd. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Modern Day Merlin

To the torn page out of Modern day Merlin’s book of wizardry,

I regret to inform you that you are nothing more than a recipe for tomato soup. You have no enchanted qualities about you, but you tend to brag about where you come from more times than you realize. Dear torn page, haven’t you noticed that the he only wondered on your whereabouts when his life was turning quite pale in color, and rugged in shape? Your words of zest, and your smooth direction brought vibrancy into his blue octagonal soul. Probably like how an octopus would feel escaping from a cloud of his own ink. He could breathe again.

But you’re lost now, and he doesn’t care much. You wonder why you were written in the first place if you’ve only felt what magic you can make once. If there are over 7 billion people in this world, have you ever wondered how many pages in books there might be? Has it ever occurred to you that out of those trillions of pages turned, over half haven’t been read at all? Has it ever occurred to you that books have been transformed into toys? Children in schools use you until they grow up and buy iPhones and laptops, and you’re left on sitting sideways on some rotting wooden shelf that has nothing more to talk about than how bad of a shape he’s in. Has it ever occurred to you that there are mysteries, histories, nursery rhymes, and adventures that have been overlooked because of the simple fact that humans have given up on the great things?

Actually, it would seem that giving up is the only thing their willing to give. Your black blood on a papyrus shell just doesn’t flow in the mind like it used to. You reminisce on the time when you were the only one that cast a spell on him, and you gave him life again.

Now the wizard is off signing autographs and performing shows at Rockefeller Center every first Friday of the month. He uses only spells so basic that he doesn’t have to read the step by step instructions anymore. To be honest, the book isn’t even used as frequently. I think I even saw a family of dust specks rent a home on page thirty-three last week.

But has it slipped your mind, humble recipe? Have you forgotten already of the position you’re in? You are a torn page now.

So float on by.

Let the wind keep you steady.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Dashing Blade

In a house high on a hill an old man grows weak, many years have gone, he lays in his old bed,
Back in the day, a dashing young officer with a brilliant red uniform he had many girlfriends,
Flowers scattered across the mead's and meadows the heaths and the glades and over wide glens,
Those days bright and hot, the occasional thunder announces itself in the seasons sultriness,
Today it is summer again trees rich with green leaves now darkened and oaks have little acorns.

Laying in his bed the French doors wide open, summer greets him warmly for just one more time,
White haired and thin his skin yellow and his eyes sunk into wasted sockets his lips quiver,
He remembers the woods well, sitting by a sheltered warm bank, new greenery bursting through,
He tries hard to sit up and to see his long ago self in the beautiful green ripening gardens,
Sweet flowers know him well, respectfully they nod to an old friend who is going on a journey.

As a man who liked to be outdoors he walked and tended these landscapes even as a young blade,
He casts way back to his youthful days when he would walk in the sun a sweet girl at his side,
Running up a woodland bank, his hands on hips, he would wander miles enjoying wonderful views,
His heart raced with joy as the carpets of the forest grew around tall trees along the floor,
Now the songs of the birds grow faint the nightingale is hushed and the cuckoo bows his head.

A nurse tiptoes in she quietly shuts the doors, he whispers, she cannot hear him but she looks,
It is so faint she goes to his bed bends down to listen her ear to his lips they barely move,
He says don't shut the doors the beauty makes me feel safe my old friends are out there waiting,
She lifts him higher, puffs his pillows adds another blanket she smiles, 'you are a lovely man',
The blackbird and the thrush perch near the French doors and sing a musical goodbye very softly.

He can now see the Coltsfoot and cardamine in the fallows with green moss in the moist meadows,
And the star of Bethlehem gleaming from the copse the woods, a special beauty from shady places.
The celandine and kingcup glow in golden lustre he watches them his eyes rheumy and tears fall,
Daisies scattered across lawns like patterns in a carpet of lime green, smelling of spearmint,
The elder flower, corn poppy and the viper's bugloss with a rich azure smile from his garden.

He begins to smile shakily at the crocuses spreading a purple flood over the greenest meadows,
It's a sight you have to see, to take it in, color returns to his cheeks on his ashen old face,
Above all the favorites of the field is a violet, many times he picked one for his lady friends,
White, purple diffuse sweetness under hedges, a landscape painted in mind, those were good days,
Young girls would walk arm in arm across the glades to listen to his wondrous battle stories.

These pictures of beauty he has known since his early childhood days, his memory so very clear,
Whispering do you scent the hay, do you hear the scythes ringing, do you hear sweet laughter,
The joys of running across green fields like young breeze and smelling sweet newly cut grass,
Scented breezes fill his room, his eyes close, happy to return to his precious long gone days,
And with his last breath he walks arm in arm with a beautiful young girl in sweet old meadows.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

CADD

@2Twenty0
CharlaXTitles
CADD
CharlaXAgainstDrunkDrivers
Puke all over the seat and get some on your dogs head 
and a little on the wife’s  purse get her good 
and Madd at yew so she will take the car keys 
and drop them in the piranha pool to keep 
the control of the car away from yew. 
DO not ever try to drive the car like that again. 
Be my friend let the motor idle when the belly 
has an idol in the center of your disgusting 
fatness leave the driving to the women 
or call the rental. Drinking is a disease 
of the mind heart liver central being alcoholic yew. 
It is now not only whiskey but people drugging 
swagging smoking of the left handed Turkish variety 
just puffing passing smoking inhaling 
like a Clinton Will. Stronger measures now aer 
needed to stop the added danger of a high 
mucky muck brown frame toker from totaling 
the soccer van of Mother. There is station wagons 
on the road this mourning with whiskey bumps 
all over them the women drivers not exempt 
from hitting poles and other cars 
and then my friend there is the LAW of Johnny 
combined to probable cause. When the police man shines 
his light inside the car and sees at least thirteen 
empty beer bottles laying in the back seat empty 
he has a right to ask ewe iff ewe aer recycling them 
or drinking. A road test complete with breathalyzer 
please make them touch the nose 
never mind the sneezes please.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Once Upon a Time

It's raining I look at my window and wonder is it wrong to think so fondly of my youth,
Is it wrong to keep on looking so tenderly back to younger days to my ‘once upon a time,’
An old fool, a sentimentalist thinking so perseveringly, looking and lingering behind me,
I love the joy of my gentle pastime I would do it anyway despite whatever people may say.

I love the fragrances gone, these days, of flowers in the spring tide of my old past life,
Before the blooms were ruined by the dust of the hard turnpike road where life changed me,
I have many tender memories of years long gone, if they have been gilded, it’s my own gilt,
My memories are my memories, they are more precious to me even than the air I breathe today.

Remembering locking hands and pressing on the grass on which I started to learn to walk,
And my early school days where an eager mind soaked up knowledge and never discrimination,
Understanding words little ones at first and feeling good with a gold star in my workbook,
Making friends, learning while playing games on sweet green grass in a wonderful innocence.

So who cares if I fly high upon the wings of my memories souring over good days long gone,
Back to the earliest scenes of my innocent boyhood days when time was made of purest gold,
The pictures in my mind hang before me colorful moments carved into the hardest of stone,
So can you see why I must recall these days, if I turn my head they will be snatched away.  


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Wood Carving

            Wood Carving


He sits there, not quite motionless, for
even the comfortable must alter their
perception occasionally, frozen stare
upon a craggy visage, tiny fox-like predator
eyes peering into your soul.  “What are his
origins?” ask the bespectacled intellectuals.
“Who is he?” and “Why has he taken up
his unwelcome residence here?”  The buses
pass carrying workers, students, captains
of industry. They look at him but they do
not see him.  The children see him.
Wonder in their dreams how he came
to be.  Some want to be rid of him.
They have no reason, no justification
for alarm, nothing to warrant their
uneasiness.  One daring young lady
sat beside him, whispered a secret to
him, both shook with laughter.
Passersby were startled to see the
interaction and summoned the
the childs mother.  “What have you
taught her that makes her think that
she can do such things?”  They asked.
The young lady tried to speak but was
hushed by the serious looks she was
getting from the adults.  That evening at
bed time the young lady’s mother asked
her: “What did you say to him?”.  “I said:
‘You look like grandpa.”.  The mother sat
back, quieting a tear, and reminded the
young lady that her Grandpa was no
longer here.  “I know, Mommy”.  She said.
Well then, what did “he” say to you?”
The young lady sat up in bed and smiled
“He said that he was there every day,
and any time I wished to sit with him
and read to him it would be fine.”
“Mommy”, she said, “do you remember
grandpa”?  “You know …how his face was
all rough, and his hands hard and
spidery, and how he would like it when
I sat with him and read?”  The tear that
had been held “quiet” made a sound,
ran down the mother’s face as she
hugged her daughter and put her
to bed.  The next day mother and daughter
walked to the old tree, felt the roughness
of his face, touched his spidery thin
branches, sat with him – and read.
Soon others came to visit, sitting and
whispering, laughing and reading.
for they know who he is, what his
origins are, why “he” waits so patiently.


John G. Lawless
9/27/2014

For PD's WHATEVER - Poetry Contest


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Quench Their Thirst

their every heartbeats are for each other
no intake of food
they live on love
they drink each other’s smiles
nurture their love
his, every tender word
her nourishment 
his touch sends shivers up her spine
his thought only of her
she is his dream girl
never did she believed that one day 

her dreams would come true
and still she is dreaming of him
still she is longing for him
when she looks into herself
she aches at night without his touch
because she is not with him
 words spoken
desires placed on hold
soon her dream will come true
together they will quench
their thirst for true love...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

When Alone

When skies are bluer than ever before
and clouds disappear from sight
I am alive
When thunderstorms flash white
and the rains come
I am alone
When daffodils burst forth from the snow
and crocus peep through
I am alive
When winter cold and trees barren
and leaves lie on frozen floor
I am alone
I want to face life's storms
with friends who hold my hand
and family who clearly states,
"You are not alone"
Then, I will live.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Beautiful Eyes A thousand Eyes Looking into

Beautiful Eyes ! 
A thousand Eyes,
Looking into ?

As I look out my window, there,
hundreds of Autumn Green Eyes, stare,
they dance on the breath of cold, cruel winds,
bowing beneath the caresses of rain drops -
there, hanging, kissed by the grips of cool air -
on the finger tips of these Autumn days,
reaching out, touching the hands,
of the grim reaper, as he stands
on the threshold, of Winter's dream,
a new tomorrow, that will Spring
to life in another season.

Reason ?

I am reminded of you,
Who, I can never forget.

B.J."A" 2
October 17th 2009


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fraternity of Bearded Poets

Jack wrote a poem about his beard and it got me to thinking. What is it about our facial hair that causes us to hold on to it? For me, when I grew my first mustache at sixteen, it was almost a right of passage to manhood. When I look back at old pictures, it doesn't look so manly. My Mom had always threatened to shave it off in my sleep. She never did, so here I am Thirtyfive years later still sporting a mustache with an added Goatie under my chin. The younger amongst us may consider me an old goat so I think it is appropriate. I prefer of course to think it is distinguished, especially considering the amount of grey that has appeared. Perhaps in a few years I will look back and think, it looks as silly as that picture of my Sixteen year old Self.   For now it will remain, kind of like an old friend you don't wish to part with.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

On the Sundays I Cried and Tasted His Kiss.

My eyes closed, he made me breathe, he stopped...

and I cried, I drowned myself in the taste of how it should be as he opened me, opened his
hand and showed me the way time escapes from us, and I would say...

yes...

in that moment, I would whisper myself across his hands and we'd watch yesterday scatter,
I'd study confusion and laugh.


I wanted to tell him that if I walked, I'd stumble, my head would turn backwards towards
him waiting to see him run...

but I'd never call, not once, not on a Saturday when the sun broke the sky and clouds
shattered, pieces of my heart breaking...

waiting...

for him to understand.


Nights followed me and daydreams appeared in his open mouth as I brushed my lips across
his shoulders and watched tomorrow come true, and I never wanted much, I never begged for
him, I fell to his side, I felt my life dissolve into him, I whispered secrets because
when he sleeps...

he never hears me...

he never knows I'm scared.



I wanted to agree, but blue never dropped down in straight lines and I was terrified my
tears would fall in patterns that resembled pain, I wanted to open my mouth and show him
who I was, but my voice sounds too pretty when I speak his name...

I wanted to tell him, but he slept...

he dreamed while my secrets kissed his skin and hushed the Saturdays I'd 

waited

for him to call

and the Sundays when my tears tasted a little bit like how it should be

when my lips

still

tasted him.





Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Met You On My Way

I met you on my way
Along my first ever journey
Away from home
I met you on my way
The day I ventured out,
On my own.
I met you in some station
In a small crowd,
And then my imagination
It wandered out...
You were standing 
At a distance
A smiling face,
You talked to the rest
With an uncanny grace!
I looked at you
And you looked back
At my eyes,
As if your gaze 
Can see through
All my lies.
The night was dark, 
Deep and quiet,
But it was no less
Than a fairy-tale night!
I walked out
Of the small crowd
Lost in me,
Pondered again,
Again and again...
If it would ever be...
I meet you every day
Ever since that night
The way you cross me...
Do I cross your mind?



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Childhood Dreams

Childhood Dreams

Sometimes 
I dream about the time
When being a child
Was so simple.
Dreams about an old home flow--
Bringing back Christmases,
While trying to play
An innocent child again
In my dream a red-nose reindeer
Takes me back home
Where my mother and father,
Long dead,
Are waiting for me
At the Christmas tree
With gifts of happy 
Childhood memories.


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The Number Eight

Can’t sleep
My night fades into 
The bright numbers
Of a digital clock

I make coffee
Which at this time of night
Feels good
As it slowly rolls down my throat

Beginning with a single thought
Ten thousand follow
Thoughts 
That make no sense at all

All the while
I stare at the brightness
Of a digital clock
And suddenly realize

The number eight
Is brighter
Than any other number
In the darkness


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The Seventh Fable

 The Seventh Fable 
The Seventh Fable 
 
Charlaxes Fables 
 
Mental Prefabrications 
 


People have preconceived ideas from Religion and Television 

combine these two ideas and no wonder everyone is mental. 

The Eye is just now thankful that the computer was not mine at age 14. The TV 
was enough to ruin me for life. It is no wonder that eye still don't have a life. 
Falling into cracks made just for me. Living in the NEW AGE causes so much 
uncertainty and problems we avoided in our past come back as daily necessities 
of the mass of useless protoplasmic mice eye once saw a man on the highway 
with a sign he was begging for more money to get some more useless wine so 
the people went zigging past avoiding him until he fell down on the ground it 
seemed to me he was passed out perhaps he died and no one buried him 
sounds like an episode of Twilight Zone. There was episodes eye will never 
forget the NOSE throbbing on the stairs inside the house the girl tried to leave the 
shelter of the fence once out she turned to dust the man with the wires in his arm 
seeing the oven where he was born the little airforce people in the GIANT 
woman's kitchen getting swept. 

It just occurred to me the ins and outs of celebrity imagine all the casting calls to 
make the episodes. AND the fact that Charlax was never chosen for even one of 
them seems sort of some kind of twisted justice the actors used were just the 
best of all the crème de le crème of all the hollywooded jest. Webseries Pilot 
casting call: 
The Charlax would be excellent at this OH wait look at that ethnic face. Male, 
open ethnicity, early to mid 30's - JG. Federal Agency Detective.  Good at his job, 
but fresh enough to still want to make a difference. Oh if eye were only Twenty 
Years different. A Twilight Zoned Detecative with the name Rick Roll selected and 
elected to be the actor of the myllineum. 
   


Details | Prose Poetry | |

~ In the Innocence Sublime ~

We lay fallen as velvet roses divinity-promenading in our wake. Innocence sublime weeping still-puddles... blessing-our-first-kiss. Beauty eminent one heart securing all we share-tongues-entwined hopes defined joined together-soaring-free-as-one... a kin to love, swept-away-by-it-we-were... . I believe the heart of grace adamant, generous-tender and-aware honest and faithful- awaiting-patiently... moves freely, because it knows, the-pureness of love always inspires the-opportunity, and so enchantment-gazed upon innocence and desire knew-itself, when-first God showed Adam Eve... ! Now-here today as time has-kept-us in-its ardent-march-I-say I believe-it was-the same with-him back then... . Because simple-smiles day-dreams and quiet eye-beams alone... for me-too-with-you just wouldn't have been-enough, and-when-I-think-of-you, I thank-God for the blessing of our-time, because my heart enchanted, elated, complete... from-here on-out will I forever- know-and be-grateful to-have-loved the-beautiful-angel, that is you. As-so-enticed by the light in your-eyes, the hopeful-manner the-playfulness of your-lips, I tell-you-intrigued, to entwine-them-together, (with mine)... ! I figured I'd have a day to share, and a lifetime, from-then-on, (to touch)... . (if only just), I-could-chance to-embrace them... ((once)). Author notes The hyphens are all used in conjunction-with one-another for recording-purposes for the- disabled... . My Mac computer I can here and as it interprets the differing punctuations it gives the work in there differing usages a clearer and more realistic soft higher and lower Ebb and Flo when it is heard... ! The work can as well be reformatted into proper engine form for those whom may not be disabled... ! Entered into this contest as such and mainly for these reasoning's... ! Thank you for allowing and for considering my entry. I am entirely honored to be a small part... ! Written for my Jenny... . ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ....... ...... ..... .... ... .. . http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jqTLlHkfSC4


Details | Prose Poetry | |

THE LOST GENERATION

What happened to all the young men?
And the young women too? Those ones get married.
But where have all the young men gone? 
Have you not heard, have you not seen?
There is a war in the land. 
Which war without the sound of guns, you might ask?
Economic war- the young men are economic warriors, fighting in far off lands; that is what most 
have become. 
I know, but where are our brightest and best? 
Funny question- in wars you lose your best men first.
So, would they ever come back or are they the lost generation?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Finding Innocence in the Laughter That Escapes Pillowcases.

Behind the sun, with a little bit of assuredness, I saw the shades of his smile
swing toward the moon...
and I cursed six p.m. In a voice that hid the memories of
nineteen~ninety~two
when I wore my shoes underneath the shadows of stars and in the feel of his lips
when sixteen is innocent despite the cold exposure
of skin.


I wonder if he knows I whisper to him in his sleep, my promises slipping underneath the
blanket he holds tight around him,
and feathers escape pillowcases when I laugh,
they tickle toes and dissolve the taste of fear
as my tongue finds the outline of his lips after the sun falls down and his
smile
is apparent.


I tidy myself up on Mondays, and wreck the idea of perfection with my curls...
I wear jeans that smudge mountains across back pockets and imagine how the hem of my
burgandy dress would fall across chilled creek splashed rocks,
I wonder if I'd be able to stay pretty when my hands fall into mud and the wind attacks my
cheeks...
but he smiles, you see, when the sun falls...
he smiles when I change my clothes...
and he kisses me when my curls detest reality and Monday smirks at the idea of cleanliness
as my imagination drowns hems and rips fabric.


So I kick off my shoes with the idea that my toes can taste Tuesday and my feet can squash
the memories of
nineteen~ninety~two
and revel in innocence as I discover
the cold exposure
of skin.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Friend in Doubt

A Friend in Doubt
WLM
Wildncrazy555
July 2, 2011 

Thought I had a true friend
He would be there till the end
In the end I found out 
What he was all about
Making me the shrew
And giving me the screw
Though the years we were there
All we did was help and share
You show concern 
But then you learn
His name is Jimmy and so full of bull
He treats most as a fool
Once he is alone
It will finally lost last be shown
Just keep on to thyself lying
Because soon you will be dying
Things will be better in the end
Cause life will be begin again
But now a lost friend to me 
So my life is finally free


Details | Prose Poetry | |

adieu

You need a visit to the bush
to see an elephant

You need a visit to the bush
to see a bufallo
 
Who will go to the wild
to see the fun of these animals

'Abidoye Adeosun' has been there
to see these animals playing

'Akintan Oluwasegun' has also been there
to see there funs, now both are part of them

You two are great warriors
of the world above

REST IN PEACE my two lovely friends

Dine not in a earthworm soup
Dine not in a millipede stew

Whatever they eat in the world above
Dine gracefully with them

Death
though...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

MY HEART, MY TRAITOR

My heart is a traitor,
A betrayer of my soul
And a traitor of my will!
Oh how I wish I could love
Against the will of my heart!

I muse on the times
When my heart was my subject
And could dance the tune of my song
Loving and laughing
To the jokes of my love

I muse on the days
When sun rose in my heart
Lighting up the alleys
And opening up the lids
To let my heart love, and be loved…


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Christmas Poem (For Lyn, et al)

...Have occasioned
I think to have been decor-
rating The Tree, it's 
 
piney quills & tines   
dressing in glassy festoons
weightless baubles of 
 
tins-led Christmas-candy
colors, like porcelain 
fragile-fine, hooked canes
 
& dangled barber-pole-paean
peppermint-stick Memories
of savored hangon 
 
trinkets & heirlooms
looming like a twinkling 
tapestry 'round 
 
wreaths of snowy popped-corn
dangling - "No, darlings, that's not 
for eating..."  Yes, I 
 
have occasioned the 
rows of bubbling light-tubes 
like glowing chains of 
 
warm caterpillars 
inching-on toward the Manger's 
Star of a chrysalis 
 
Christmas Joy to Light-
Up the World!  Oh Yes, I have 
occasioned The Tree 
 
Breathing in Ecstasy...
And the Wonder, of this from
a Guy whose Imprimatur 
 
might have been
"Tannenbaum!"
 
                         H.e.m.
                         12.8.MMvi.  
                         Noel. 


"And so, as Tiny Tim observed, G-D bless Us, Every One!" 
(" A Christmas Carol").  And...

A "...Merry Christmas to All, and to All a Good Night!" 
(Clement Clarke Moore, "Twas The Night Before Christmas").
 
Amen.

 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Slipper

In the black and white days of the 1950’s schools made youngsters learn and learn well or else,
Uniforms were as important with short trousers and knee length grey socks with elastic garters,
Garters would get so tight they left impressions on legs that took ages to stop legs itching,
We sat on wooden desks with ink wells in the corner, wooden pens with removable inky wet nibs.

Every single day my hands would be covered in ink no matter how hard you scrubbed it stayed,
We began our ten year education reading Janet and John books, and others not allowed today,
Girls wore grey pinafore dresses and blue knickers, we knew as they always played hand stand,
Playgrounds, black tar with chalked hopscotch grids and in the grass puttyholes for marbles.

In the London schools there was sometimes thick smog a thick fog mixed with smelly pollution,
Each morning before we left to go to school we were given a huge spoonful of malt with cod oil,
Disgusting, a big spoon shoved in my mouth, gagging as it was wiggled about bashing my teeth,
Discipline was tight the cane was used often, lesser offences a beating from the big slipper.

Never knew why it was called the slipper because it wasn’t a slipper it was a shoe and it hurt,
In class and I was fiddling with something and not paying attention I got a rap on my knuckles,
When not expecting it, out of the blue a whack was a painful experience and the class giggled,
The edge of a wooden ruler covered in ink made the back of your hand go red with a white line.

Then it was the dreaded times tables a teacher would randomly spit out a question and stare,
What’s 7 x 9 boy? The pressure of the stare and the stick patting his palm made me forget,
Stand in the corner boy, I will deal with you later, so for the rest of the lesson I worried,
Hands up on my head, my arms heavy aching, waiting for a portion of punishment what would it be.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Remember When

Remember When
Remember when I was twenty
and you were only twenty-four?
Remember how you looked at me
and how my eyes rested on yours?
Remember the eyelash on your fingertip
and how you blew it away?
Remember my prayer, my wish
and what I wanted you to say?
Remember the pounding of our hearts
as love embraced our very souls?
You and I
Have known each other from long ago
Before there was life
Before there was breath.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Infection Sublime

Infection Sublime
                 by Odin Roark

with his lone return
on this New York street
in middy’s humid heat
he did see shutters closed
behind antique glass
whose reflection reminded
he wasn’t born there
only grew up in the embrace
of a brownstone haven

the oldness
now new
restoration hipster style

closing his eyes
he remembered
battered front door
yapping terrier just inside
forever on guard for landlady safety

the nightly dash
up dark stairs to the 3rd floor
evading the heel-nipping
four-legged devil incarnate

opening his eyes
blazing sun reflected back
like a searing message
“isn’t it time to move on?”

he sensed the warning
but no one appeared
no one stared from behind
invisible lace curtains

there was no one
sidewalk bare
street deserted
not even the ubiquitous taxi horns

no
he was alone
in Manhattan’s summer heat
the kind of thermal suffocation
forcing the discomfort of false memories
the kind he didn’t need
when melancholy’s purity
would always walk beside him

such was the newly sterilized street
the occupants unaware
how sublime yesteryear’s infection


Details | Prose Poetry | |

SMALL TOWN MEMORIES

Swimming in an outdoor pool, 
drinking from  a fountain,cool;

Swings and slides in childish fun ,
summer picnics in the sun;

A Sunday Brassband trumpet call,
in open spaces enjoyed by all;

Bowls and putting on the green,
in the Vale Park 'the 'place to be seen;

Leisurely strolls and chat,
forties style,now so very 'old hat'.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Jehovah Witness

 Jehovah Witness 
Jehovah Witness 
 
this is a picture of an actual Kingdom Hall 
Fighting Jesus 
 
Fable Fourteenth 
 
 Judgment Call 
Ode to Edgar A Poe 
Ode to be remembered with three red roses and a half a blanc of wine the 
certainty of summer in Ravenswood combines with sultry summer pines and 
odors of the firmament decay to play a mournful tune of odious deliverance. How 
can such playful creatures of this life become so dark at night time coming to the 
Earth to preach a GOD of everyone of Earth to say this world is pleasant when 
poor Edgar knoes it's not? He never seems to want for sympathy a poor man's 
plot is seldom visited the visitor is not out a lot the roses at three p the half a 
magnum drank he stank he must say some words at grave like Quote the Raven 
Eleanor never more have a drink old plank would anyone come and leave a half 
of soda and three small purple flowers on my grave? But reminisce about the 
meeting done they grabbed me by both arms but not before my head was 
pressed against the glass of double doors and tossed hurriedly away outside 
don't listen to the homeless one he stinks he sleeps in clothes unwashed how 
can anyone like that can knoe his GOD? Then eye turned a swollen eye upon the 
meeting place and did a little dance a little prancing just in place and cried Jesus 
hallelujah yes they threw me out of judgment hall please bless the place eye 
dance. Poor Edgar cannot prance. CharlaX loves his stance. Half a soda and 
three purple flowers every Easter on a poor place to stay someone reading this 
may do so to remember me this poet needs to be. 



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Jumpers

I must confess, you are by far my favourite 
I don’t mind stealing a kiss in the coffee shop 
Between sips of our spiced lattes  
Or letting you push the trolley in B&Q 
When we are choosing paint for the study 
In the little house in Hoxton we decided to buy

I’m not the kind of woman to care for affection 
I’ve gone twenty one years without it 
But with you it’s different 
It doesn’t make me feel loved,
Or any more of a woman 
It makes me feel alive 

The closet is full of your vintage jumpers 
You particularly favour brown hues 
I know this, as I’ve bought you seven
I don’t mind wearing one now and again 
The smell of them reminds 
Of the long walks in the city we’d take 
I’d let you hold my hand
After the thirteenth date 
I smile to myself, thinking 
How far we had come 
Since then. 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Hospital in Metroland 1930

The hospital smelt of disinfectants strong bleach many potions, polish and ether,
Cleanliness so important always clean and polished, in the waiting room, leather,
A policeman down a corridor in a terrible hurry held his helmet by its chin strap,
He had appeared with a young girl a head wound was upset sat bleeding in his lap.
Many sad people waiting in agony for news wandered about around the waiting rooms,
Chain smoking cigarettes their eyes staring blindly towards cleaners with brooms,
An old man in pain feeling sick had caught two fingers in a heavy steam train door,
Rocking with pain bleeding he is getting impatient he should have been seen before.
Looking through a reinforced glass window of a door was a snow white treatment room,
A man in white was dabbing something yellow that stung before bandaging the wound,
The silence was broken there was a commotion by doctors nurses all running around,
Two policemen carried a seriously injured man that had been knocked to the ground.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

An Autumn Walk in Autumn Years

One fine, blustering, autumn day an old gentleman walks from his home,
If anyone wondered where he was going he was on his way to a forest,
The old gentleman walked at a leisurely pace stopping now and again,
Just to see what the farmers men were up to and who was the plowman.

As he paused he took pleasure at the sight of fat cattle and poultry,
Duck, geese and turkeys busying themselves beside the big barn doors,
And he could hear the flail or the swipple, knocking out the cut corn,
He carried on walking, smiling and made his way to the brow of a hill.

He stopped at stiles and rustic bridges casting arches over the water,
Breathing in deeply through his nose, sampling the fresh autumnal air,
After looking all around, happy would nod and murmur, "Ay, all is good,"
Having satisfied himself he looked forward and so he walked on again.

It would not be long before he stopped, catching his wheezing breath, resting,
This time by clusters of rich, jetty blackberries hanging from large hedge,
And clusters of nuts, hanging by the wayside through many copses on his way,
in all these natural beauty the old man seemed to have enjoyment of a child.

A handful of blackberries went into his mouth and nuts in his jacket pockets,
With a quiet inspiring and thoughtful cheerful look he carried on his quest,
Bound for a long walk he was in no hurry enjoying nature and all it's beauty,
An old man stretching his legs enjoying the season of autumn and golden leaves.

He stopped again to talk to a very old laborer, who was busy clearing ditches,
And had you been nearer you would have heard their nostalgic talk of past days,
About the changes in that part of the country agreeing they disliked any change,
They shook hands and the old man waved and carried on with his autumnal day out.

Many years ago he was young and full of life, girls marveled at his thick arms,
In youth he was buoyant and sang songs and made love, went to wakes and party's
But now his wooing days had passed but still there was a twinkle in his old eyes,
His beautiful wife a rosy light hearted damsel had passed on, his son, moved away.

Back in the day he was strong and lusty he had no fear or cares his life was good
But now he was much leaner and his muscle's gone it left him like an old dry kex,
Sure those days where much better for him there was no comparison, none at all,
He went on his way and in his mind he was no older he saw all with youthful eyes.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

BABY I LOVE YOUR HAIR

it turns me on
as you walk along
it had style
 as you walk that miles
am aware
its hair care
alway ways won't you near
BABY I LOVE YOUR HAIR


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mama

Mama
Your son is a liar
He says to someone 
You have the longest
Wave in your smile 
That’s a lie
That’s also a sweet lie 
To describe a sweet love

Mama
Your son is a hustler
He goes in the street 
Stole someone’s heart
And said 
Every kiss  
Has a Mother’s Day

Mama
Your son is ugly 
But his beauty 
Honors your strength 
And your dignity 
He says each star is a
Birth mark 
That makes you
A life creator

Mama 
Your son is homeless 
He says since your death 
He has no place to go
Where can he find 
The warmth of your arms 
Where can he buys   
Some mama’s love

Mama 
Your son has a son
Your love will not perish.  

Anderson Dovilas, in memory of my Lovely Mother and a great Mom.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Forgotten Fairytale

I caught a glimpse of you 
    when you didn’t know I was looking 
 Trying to rediscover what I'd forgotten about you 
                About us
         Why I'd once loved you... 
              In that other time
 
You were standing naked in front of the mirror 
         Your auburn hair glistening on your wet, mortal body
  You had just stepped out of your morning shower 
       humming the customary tune you do so well 

I stood quietly in the hall...
watching you shave your golden, red beard 
       while you hummed... 
  keeping the rhythm with your foot 

It was intoxicating, observing your routine 
    without you knowing I was there 
  I'd watched your morning ritual a thousand times 
                 You - always aware when I was looking 
 In the past   
    In that other time
 
      Somehow... 
  watching you more with my heart, than with my eyes 
              made me melancholy 
  Missing those feelings I'd once felt for you 
             For us... 
       So deep within my heart...
   For awhile back then
    
Did we ever really love? 
  Was it kismet? 
       Was it fate?    
         The question sits on unspoken lips 

I sighed... 
     Missing us, missing you
  Back then... 
        In another time     

When our melody began 
   you sang the notes to my heart so well 
       so tender 
  We soared on the music 
         our mouths relishing the kiss
      In our moments back then   
 
     For a time...        
We were us, you and I 
    Tracing our love with thirsy lips 
  hungry bodies 

I stood there looking at you for quite some time... 
        Pausing at the door before I left
                    Knowing... 
 I might never open that door again                 

    I turned back once more before turning to go 
       making sure to remember just why I was leaving 

     But now... 
        Every time I see a man shaving
   I find myself thinking of you

         Goodbye my love
 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Valerie


...a true story


It was one of those chance encounters; the Common Room, mid-morning on a brisk April day. She bounced in with a radiant smile and absent-mindedly scanned the newspapers. I was reading a magazine. At loose ends, we were both looking for something to do, so I suggested an afternoon on the river together. She said 'Sure!' and we gathered the ingredients for a picnic and set off for St Aldates.

The day was simply beautiful... There was a breeze cool enough to pimple her skin, so I offered her my sweater. The Cherwell looked inviting, its surface dancing with ripples, brightly dappled with sunshine. I took her hand and settled her in the punt, grasping the pole to guide us into midstream. There were many others enjoying the early afternoon, some ladies with parasols and long, flowing print dresses, but we took no heed. We wore jeans and sweaters and were enjoying one another's company. We reached a shallow bridge and I ducked, angling the pole so we would clear the span. As we drifted under I grabbed the pole to bring it clear of the water, and horrified, I found it was stuck in the river bed! The punt sailed quietly on without its helmsman, as I was left clinging, and sliding slowly into the river. We broke into uncontrollable laughter; she because of my childishness and lack of restraint, and I because of my embarrassing plight! Finally she secured the punt with the paddle and I retrieved the pole, drying myself as best I could on the bank. We drank wine and ate bread, cheese and grapes, giggling and teasing each other like two children at play.

I saw her to her dorm room, and asked if I might have the pleasure of her company later for dinner. She coyly accepted my invitation... One hour later I picked her up. She looked enchanting... We drove out to Woodstock, home to Blenheim Palace, the ancestral seat of the Churchill family. There we enjoyed a casual meal, laughing again over the misadventures of the afternoon. As the sun was beginning to set I led her outside the restaurant and down the lane to the corner. I told her to keep her eyes closed. When she opened them she saw a vista she would never forget; the palace, high on a hill, a fairy-tale vision, with pastureland sloping down to a lake in the foreground dotted with swans, all bathed in the glow of the setting sun. She stood there, speechless. I squeezed her hand as we gazed into each other's eyes. Not a word was spoken. We were both grateful for the day we had spent together. It was just the two of us. And for a while, only that moment mattered.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Reflecting

As an old man reflecting on his very long past does he only reflect the good,
My friends I stand guilty, my reflections are of only good in my shoal of time,
Dare I peer into mists a dim mysterious future where it will be short, not long,
Seeing my future in its ghastly perspective, arrows of death drift across my path.

I see the future where I walk, my path and can see graves opening all around me,
My fellow travelers, one by one gliding down into a grave, fear owns this road,
There are deathbeds, weeping friends stand around the wretched suffering forms,
The young and the old the high and the low marching to a common goal, eternity.

While I can see all this and stand in dreadful doubt which deathbed will be mine,
One of these arrows is winging its way towards me and I have no amour none at all,
Is it the darkness of the past that make us afraid on our future and our shadows,
Having disappointed all the expectations from those who trusted me, trust wasted.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

NO MEASURE TO SOUL TREASURES

this a sight that right
has the pass
and gas 
of music that last
get on this task
and check it out no doudt
there's
NO MEASURES
TO SOUL TREASURES


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The broken road to heaven

The broken road to heaven 


The broken road in need of maintenance  
through which we have traveled, mute and solemn 
to our delight
was alight with millions of glow bugs;
evening was another leaf fallen
when I whisper to my friend Richard,
“Is it heaven? Have we arrived at last?” 
he smiled,  “we are yet to reach my home.”
=© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Tragedy---for Jon

Lost? 
Found. 
Never has life's cruel temper dealt its deceiving hand as this day 
Lost-found in a place, living know not. 
Kinship friendship - words, verbiage to describe mortal bonds 
While those of the soul grasp bonds endless and dimensionless 
Youth is but a stage of dying 
Time cruel to its very essence. Time blows through us all as our sight through glass 
Its dark fingers paint our walls and carry us to our HOLMES 
Its cruelty is its existence. Defining agony, depriving experience 
Youth felt emotion lost through existence 
Found youth soul existence beyond comprehension 
Youth to us all? Youth has been lost but found where else 
But where time confronts us all. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Christmas Long Time Past

Father Christmas in the night sky his sleigh and reindeer a silhouette in the moonlight,
He has traveled all over the world to lavish his presents to small sleeping children,
The family has retired and left a mince pie and some sherry, the little ones dreaming,
Mr. Christmas climes up and down chimneys leaving special gifts it is a magical time.

Earlier on this Christmas Eve, many excited little children on their little tippy toes,
Straining to place their stocking high on the front room wall away from nosy grey rats,
Some scarcely reach higher than these rats frantic that sweets will have bites in them
Older brothers and sisters unhook the stockings and pin them higher up, out of the way 

Mother has sat them round a table and coaxed them off to their beds earlier than usual,
Told them all about the story of Christmas and why it is such an important special day,
They sat there wide eyed listening to every word the very young not understanding it all,
There faces rosy from the heat of a yule log burning in the hearth and everything quiet.

They understand that Father Christmas only visits very good well and behaved children,
And the children feel guilty as they cast their mind back over the last very long year,
The children find it hard to hold their tongues hoping Father Christmas won't ride past,
And that if they go to bed without any moaning and go to sleep early he will be very kind.

Laying in their beds can they hear the the sound of whistles, penny-trumpets and drums?
They squeeze their eyes shut tight, just in case it is Father Christmas flying nearby,
A wind blows the downstairs door could that be the reindeer's and the sleigh flying past,
Gradually they tire and one by one drop into a deep sleep the sort only known by children. 

In their sweetest dreams they hear the cries of dolls, singing wooden birds, gold ribbons,
The ticking of pewter watches looked at by the raggy dolls, toy soldiers guarding oranges,
They are asleep and so very happy the emblems of innocence, at peace on this Christmas Eve,
And when the morning finally comes they are loaded with beautiful gifts it's Christmas Day.

25th December 2012 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Across Fair Fields

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

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

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

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

91

 91 
91 
 

CharlaXFabels 
 
 
 
23Skeedo 
 
This is a cliché. That's my name for an old aside or an adage here we go into the 
world of CharlaXFabels once more gentle reader ewe 23 Skeedo. 23 skidoo 
(phrase) 
 23 skidoo is an American phrase popularized in the early twentieth century, first 
appearing before WWI and becoming popular in the Roaring Twenties. It 
generally refers to leaving quickly, being forced to leave quickly by someone else 
or taking advantage of a propitious opportunity to leave, that is, "getting [out] while 
the getting's good." 
23 skidoo has been described as "perhaps the first truly national fad expression 
and one of the most popular fad expressions to appear in the U.S," to the extent 
that "Pennants and arm-bands at shore resorts, parks, and county fairs bore 
either [23] or the word 'Skiddoo.'" 
The exact origin of the phrase is uncertain. PHRASE. OH. Okay today we learn 
some old phrasers YOCK YOCK YUCK. All Wet - describes an erroneous idea or 
individual, as in, "he's all wet." This works better if you can remember the ABBOT 
bud and Costello lou he said an aweful lot of these phrases as everyday 
wordage. Abbott: Well Costello, I'm going to New York with you. You know Harris, 
the Yankee's manager, gave me a job as coach for as long as you're on the 
team. Costello: Look Abbott, if you're the coach, you must know all the players. 
Abbott: I certainly do. Costello: Well you know I've never met the guys. So you'll 
have to tell me their names, and then I'll know who's playing on the team. Abbott: 
Oh, I'll tell you their names, but you know it seems to me they give these ball 
players now-a-days very peculiar names. Costello: You mean funny names? 
Abbott: Strange names, pet names...like Dizzy Dean Costello: His brother Daffy. 
Abbott: Daffy Dean...Costello: And their French cousin. Abbott: French? Costello: 
Goofè. Abbott: Goofè Dean. Well, let's see, we have on the bags, Who's on first, 
What's on second, I Don't Know is on third...Costello: That's what I want to find 
out. Abbott: What? Costello: I said I don't give a darn! Abbott: Oh, that's our 
shortstop. 
http://www.baseball-almanac.com/humor4.shtml 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

English Garden

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

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 | |

Old Age Greets Winter

The year gets older storms streak the skies I am told age is a quality of the mind,
Do I sit indoors and watch the fog, the dirt, the rain and wind splash on my windows,
So I wonder around indoors in a depressing influence of a winter with its suffering,
Muttering to myself and to others that old age has made me leave my dreams behind me.

Standing by French windows, beaten by tempests, so I shuffle over to an evening fire,
The flowers have gone and longer grass stands among the thickets withered, bleached,
The fern red and shriveled amid the green gorse and broom, even my hope has gone cold,
Plants that waved white umbels to the summer breeze now a skeleton a trophy of death.

The brooks are brimful the rivers turbid covered with masses of foam hurrying along,
Words in my head whisper, if you no longer plan ahead, ambitions dead, you are old,
Our gardens, sad and damp and so desolate their floral splendors are naked and dead,
Decaying leaves have taken the place of verdure and all is gloom and all is silence.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Warm Summers DAY

After many years I paid a rare visit to the woods from my long ago childhood days,
Things have changed since boyhood, the bees are silent, the landscape has changed,
Gone, honey-laden scented flowers of the old sycamore now just crinkled old leaves,
In their place hang dainty two fold keys higher, much higher, than I ever remember.

In these trees my friends would play, climbing high much higher than I would now,
Pulling lower branches swinging legs over to get onto the start of our Everest climb,
Making our way up the trees, a little scared but not sharing my fears with the others.
Standing very near the top can’t go higher the branches too thin to take my weight.

Now the poplar has lost its metallic shimmer; the chestnut's grown with white candles,
But still the wind in the fully leafed branches sound like the sighing of a gentle sea,
The martins' nests are still there, one occupied by a shrill voiced healthy young brood,
With parental cares over the nestlings, flutter unsteadily, across green grassy Valley's.

Standing very near the top of a tree we could see over the rooftops of nearby houses,
The branches fork, we sit, a leg on each side of the bough, slowly moving outwards,
Better be a bit careful as the branch gets thinner, dead wood at the end will snap off,
Sitting here on the top of the world, holding on tight, hoping the wind will be calm.

Heads of golden, and brown, hair blow carelessly in the light warm summer breezes,
Smiles on thin faces crease and dimples appear adding a dimension to sunburned skin,
Summer clothes of cotton, bright red dresses for girls, blue jeans with turn-ups for boys,
Short sleeved shirts opened at the neck some baggy as they wore older brother’s clothes.

I remember robins their ruddy vests and the slim thrush singing with a mature note,
These days were so special, remembered like a picture lovingly painted on a canvas,
There was always fresh beauty amid the glories, people grow up in life like strong trees,
Playing among the marigolds their orange suns and the lilies white like a gentle flame.

Thinking back I see the corncockles blue crown, and the honeysuckle’s horn of fragrance,
I stand where I stood before, a lifetime ago, deep in thought, holding on to my memories,
It was a time taken for granted as children, these times would last forever never change,
loveless home life retreated to the back of my mind, forgotten on a warm summer day.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

It Just Seems

Hate to say it
But I’ve got to admit
Sometimes I look around
And I just don’t get it
Don’t know where it was or when
But somewhere down the road
We seem to have lost our way
Used to be Father’s stood firm
Right alongside Mother’s
To keep families strong
Didn’t seem to be as many questions
About what was right or wrong
Used to be when a man
Looked in the mirror
He looked there straight
Just like he spoke
Now there seems to be
A lot more mirrors filled with smoke
Don’t know, maybe it’s just
The small town in me
But I just can’t see
This new enlightenment
People throw about
In my backwoods way
It just seems like throwing out right
So they can do no wrong
They say the last forty years
Have brought us so far
True or not
One thing can’t be denied
Lost somewhere in those forty years
Were the hard fought values
And lessons learned
Of nearly two hundred years


Details | Prose Poetry | |

What She Was Like

She was like a shadow
That passes over a field of flowers
And just for that moment
Gives them reprieve from the sun

Or like a dream
That is so beautiful
That you want it to come 
Again and again
And though it never returns
It will be a dream
That you will never forget

A dream
That you tell others about
Not that you want to share it
But in the telling
It helps you remember it

Forever


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Soup And Brain Salad

No, Shar, I'd never heard of it, but I will, i looked it up, and it's got a great rating.  
Sounds good!  Thanks!!  My friend John S. is a horror buff of the first ranking.  He 
was even on the peripheral edges of some things.  Was working with Joe Spinell 
when he died (Joe) from a tooth infection complicated with heavy cocaine use.

Freddy, 'Ol boy- for you I'm sure the words would be "I'm just a boy whose 
detentions were good!..... And, when you med Davy Jones, was that at his 
locker?  Do you really like Burdon?  Have his Mickey Most series??  Regards, tom


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Lilies

       Let my hand tremble in the light. Am I whole, shaking in this warmth that shadows
out of the darkness? 
     Have I looked upon the shadows and longed for its silenced cold? Have I left the
garden of life’s valleys, to enter the world of thickened air and false horizons? 

           Where have all my lovely lilies gone, if not scattered through the darkness by
the wind? 

The petals that carried my dreams and hopes, have they been swallowed by the fitful
wisher? No; I have moved my eyes, and let them fall to the grounds of the shadows in the
alley, always within my reach, but my stilled hand will never grasp them in the cold. Let
them root in the shadows of my mind’s alley – sinking into the cracks of the stones I have
placed, to grow like weeds among the walls of my reality.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Reflecting

As an old man reflecting on his very long past does he only reflect the good,
My friends I stand guilty, my reflections are of only good in my shoal of time,
Dare I peer into mists a dim mysterious future where it will be short, not long,
Seeing my future in its ghastly perspective, arrows of death drift across my path.

I see the future where I walk, my path and can see graves opening all around me,
My fellow travelers, one by one gliding down into a grave, fear owns this road,
There are deathbeds, weeping friends stand around the wretched suffering forms,
The young and the old the high and the low marching to a common goal, eternity.

While I can see all this and stand in dreadful doubt which deathbed will be mine,
One of these arrows is winging its way towards me and I have no amour none at all,
Is it the darkness of the past that make us afraid on our future and our shadows,
Having disappointed all the expectations from those who trusted me, trust wasted.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

NO MEASURE TO SOUL TREASURES

this a sight that right
has the pass
and gas 
of music that last
get on this task
and check it out no doudt
there's
NO MEASURES
TO SOUL TREASURES


Details | Prose Poetry | |

No Frills Santa

This year Santa has decided to be thrifty,
after forecasts regarding the economy,
He's shopping at sales and going to Flea
Markets,
Trying to get the kids quality presents at a 
bargain,
He has even resorted to creativity,
making all the decorations for the North Pole's
Christmas Tree,
The reindeers have stayed afloat,
because they all invested in oats,
So far, he's saved tons of pennies!
Maybe he'll buy lots of dollies,
The elves are feeling the crunch,
therefore they all decided to brown bag 
their lunches,
All their good times at Chez Misletoe,
will be rejuvenated once more,
for their Christmas Gala, "Rock Around
the Willow",
What wonderful treats Santa will leave on
everyones' pillows!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Flight of Fancy

We were lionhearted
We imagined bullets, pinecones
Swords, sticks
We couldn't be cut
By any sharpened edge
We were invulnerable
Our heels wrapped in Nikes
Climbing hills, Everest
No concern for when
We will talk about-
"When we were young"
Only concern
For our King's men dying
And the fair lady weeping

www.nostroviatowriting.com


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hard Reflections

Living today in the wake of yesterdays yesteryears, 
following the footsteps not walked for a while. 
Finding hope in the pages of time unwritten fearful 
that hope is all for nothing 
Offended by all of the offenders that crowd my sullen day 

All along the way I know in advance 
that the way I've lived most is 
the last way to live, 
knowing the way is hard to find when the 
days amount to nothing. Production slows 
as the motion becomes all to apparent, 
apparently just going through the motions. 


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 | |

American Scream - The Bill Hicks Story

Bill beat them to death. Verbose and belligerent, banal and brilliant, Hicks would beat
you with a joke until you weren’t sure it was funny any more. But you’d still laugh.
Advertising advocates he indicated, would be best dealt with through suicide. Like
lemmings, but really jumping.

Clearly he can’t have so concisely come down on those poor cretins alone. Blasting and
berating the bourgeoisie, leaving no stone unturned. Advocating erogenous interaction and
nature’s narcotics never felt so fresh.

He cut a legendary figure, shining in mono on the stage, an anti-hero in the spotlight,
questioning the questionable and querying great quandaries for our bite-sized attention
spans. All joking asides and jeering anecdotes. The great, the goat, Gods and grass
gripped us throughout. 

In his own immortal words, life is just a ride. Rails and loops, dips and troughs. Thrills
and chills. 

Bill’s the ticket inspector. Taking names and kicking ass. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hopscotch

Taking a short cut down an alley, I saw a gleam of sunshine,
It had dried the pavements so children could chalk hopscotch,
Small children to much older children all joined in together,
Throwing their stones into the right boxes so they could play.

How sweet it was to hear such happy laughter see bright cheeks,
The freshness of true innocence that would put adults to shame,
Running in this dark little alley way, the paving was cracked,
But they were all so very happy as they didn't know any better.

They are noisy and this time we will let it go and not complain,
To see so much joy in squalid surroundings makes a tear well up
Wearing hand-me-down clothes so thin ragged so badly neglected
From now if something petty annoys me I will think of hopscotch.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

THE HALF CROWN

In the cornfield the horse drawn reaper stood steady,the vacation crew were up 
and ready.The days were long,recent clouds had gone.Yellow beams on heavy 
harvest food,the lark departing with her second brood.Field mice scattered ,their 
nests torn and forlorn .Our stooked up sheaves midst  growing clover,
unbalanced and toppling over.The clock ticked slow,the field seemed to 
grow,eleveneses a dim distant view.A working break ,to seek a half  crown for the 
week,somewhere sunny and sublime...seemed  good idea at the time.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

84

84

CharlaXFabels

BOB Newhart

Remembrandts


Eye remember two of his stories eye will relate them first the way that eye 
remember them we had a recorded message (a vinyl record) player. 

Remembrandt one: He said this is a ROBOT voice in kind of a low insistent 
monotonically dialogue. 

ROBOT: come in and sit down Human.
ROBOT: Your work has been suffering a lot lately and we are going to have to let 
you go:
This has been a recorded message.
This last was emphasized by staccato emphasis on each word he spit it out like 
a machined player. 

Remembrandt: Ants is People on the Ground
The man got on the airplane and looked out the window to the ground.
The people down there look just like ants idint it amazing.
The other airliner said Those AER ants you IDIOT we havn’t taken off yet.

Oh wow Remembrandt three: eye just remembered another one.
The Preacher and the giver the airliner and the preacher.
The man looked out at the wing and it was on fire and he began to offer up 
sacrifices to the lord LORD he said if this plane reaches the ground safely eye 
will give yew half of everything eye own.
The plane leveled off smooth and the fire on the wing went out and the plane 
landed safe.
The man was soon talking to the preacher.
He said MY good man eye heard what yew said on that plane yew said yew was 
giving half of everything yew own to the LORD and eye knoe that YEW aer gonna 
start right now? it was in the form of a question. NO preacher the man said eye 
just made HIM a better deal he said EYE told the LORD if eye ever get back on 
another one then HE can have it all.
Remembrandts of the Newhart.

http://www.rhapsody.com/bobnewhart

Copy and Past this one in search.





Details | Prose Poetry | |

AN AYLESBURY DUCK

There's a duck of high renown,bred and reared in my county town.With orange 
feet and plumage light,of culinary fame,this bird snowy-white.Neck so fine and 
feathered crown,kept in cottages now tumble down.Reared in hovels and 
shack,a deep breasted duck.with ample back.An early layer,ready for 
spring,plucking feathers so tiring,boxed in flats on Lodon-bound carts,each 
Saturday as clockwork did depart.A  Victorian food luxury,the main product of rural 
Aylesbury.A duck of worldwide renown,a noted product of my home town.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

3FABEL3

 3FABEL3 
3FABEL3 
 
Lynching 
 
 
Murder is an art form abused by those critters in a hurry to perform a judgement 
call and then scurry off on horses to hide from the real law. 
There is some western hearoes who still hate the Negroes and do not have 
them on the list of living beings in their repertoire of Johnny law. The rope is tied 
in the noose with thirteen winds some say a wind for every step up the gallows 
planks thirteen of them to give the thief a long time to prepare for Hell. We will 
stretch his neck we will hang him high we will send him on his journey to the sky 
they hammer on the gallows while the thief he sits in cell and cries uncertain of 
his future after that and eye suppose there should have been a preacher in all 
those western movies to come in and comfort them the brothers waiting there. In 
desert news in otherworldly tensions there is many promises given of 
conciliations taken from the left hand and given to the behind the back and then 
back to the right this is called the we will do this for you and then no of course we 
do not want to do this not at all syndrome. Also eye have noticed on this internet 
the use of ads is popping up increasing tension in the viewer designing limits on 
the use of money is the income of a prisoner soon increasing is the wealth of 
money belts investing blooming idiots are stealing more to pay for kitchen 
hardware and the laptops on the floor of the living room with HDTTV the 
SuperBowling friends were over just now Johnny Law was at the door way saying 
hey and did you let them in no you just slammed the slamming door way in the 
faces of the lawmen. 
  charlax valentine, here is a copy of the HiCard you 
sent. Since it was mailed to you, it will appear 
that you sent it to yourself. The real card was 
delivered exactly as you saw it previewed. 
The condemned man walked up the steps to the thirteenth story. 
Rope is sometimes frayed in the movies the rope breaks the thief falls to the 
grounded mound and jumps the saddle rides away into the night on horseback 
getting bullets in his gun by magic on the run then fighting back. 
The Hangging Judge in Fort Smith scared me so badly eye can never hold a gun 
in my left handed again. Besides the neck does not look good when rope is tied 
so tightly in the nooses neck. The Arizona Kid hung up his spurs the day the tree 
split into crosses from the lightning bolt surmising that his LORD was not well 
pleased with him that day the Sherriff made his play. 


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Super Quiz and Other Bell Bull

Shar- sorry, vacuum is not correct, although I sure could use one for my home!!
Thank you Jaime- I will read your works tonight.
Shar- re Kitchen Perfume- I admit , baking bread from scratch; flour, yeast, etc.- is 
a labor intensive house perfume- but I tell you, you will then be considered the 
best cook by all your kids, and your husband will brag for years.  I like to use an 
old edition of Betty Crocker Cookbook from the 40's- where there is no such thing 
as a microwave; sometimes the old ways are better.  Make sure the whole family 
is there before you put it in the oven.
As for lamb, I only made it once, for my father's sake.  We had a huge yard, and 
wrap-around porch, part of which he screened off.  That was his favored spot- 
and that is where I'd serve him meals, usually, with his little B&W TV on a Mets or 
Yankees game.  Oh the hours of happiness there.  Love, tom


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WARE HOUSE SALE

here's where to go
its a cheap store
buy more
rain snow or hail
this is a
WARE HOUSE SALE


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TRADITION & RITUALS

On manicured outfields seeded and sown,the middle rolled and closely 
mown.End to end,wicket to wicket the languid tempo of village cricket.By fields 
enclosed with sheep in flocks,wooden pavilions and rickety score-box.Around the 
boundary rope,ambitions ,high living in hope.Runs came from cut and glide as 
players flag in the fielding side.The rivals taking guard after tea,a run a 
minute,with inhibitions free.Hit wicket,lbw and run-out the wickets fell as the fast 
bowler ended the match in his second spell.


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Thoughts, Comments, Bits and Pieces

Thanks to all, you are the best.
Rumplestillskin, I be. Awake 6 days, brain turned into porridge (What the hell is 
porridge??  Given my Druthers!  What are druthers?  Sorry, got sidelined there.

To those who enjoy "Memories in Time"- check out book- "Going, Going, Gone..."
(Amazon.com?)  Great old memories- like Doctor's house calls!!  What's that?
Closest now is an ambulance.

"Odd Sight" John Heck- Oh, sorry, didn't recognize you with the feather in your cap.
Also- they weren't Keds- I saw!!  They were P.F. Flyers!!

"Another Time" Vince Suzadail Jr.- How right you are.  We didn't have material 
wealth, and didn't need them.  As a kid, I was perfectly happy to play on the floor 
with marbles, bottle caps, odd buttons from Mom's sew Box.  I had a "Toy's-R-
Us" inventory in my child's imagination.  And, yes pity the poor children of today- 
when childhood is over by five.  Where seeing both parents at the same time is
limited to, maybe, Thanksgiving, or MacDonald's.  Where family dinnertime is no 
more real than Oz.

Sandra- Thank you, sweetheart.

I hope to catch up on reading more of you guys tonight now that my mind is 
somewhat clear again.  Thank God for my PoetrySoup Family- I couldn't imagine 
existing without it anymore!

P.S.  I have a new phobia- I refuse to open and reach into the refrigerator... That 
box of Arm and Hammer tries to smash my fingers everytime....

Later, Dudes and Duddettes....


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Last Call

Last call at the Trees Lounge
Been there many times
Buscemi movie of it,
Wonder if I ever met him
Odd how pieces of your life
Just show up unexpectedly
Scene of places I knew well
And a good movie to boot
Some places are worth remembering


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Reflect

I reflect
On my life years ago
And things that never were.

I wonder
What I would do different
And where I’d be now.

I think
About all that I missed out on
And if my choices were right.

I search
For who I am
And who I want to be.

I hope
I can finally make peace
And quit looking in the past.

I know
I can’t change it now
And don’t think that I would.

I look
At what all lies ahead
And strive toward my goals.

I realize
Things aren’t all that bad
And I have more to give.


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BUCKINGHAM LACE

Sussanah,my great grandma,times three,a pillow puffed up on her knee;with 
daughter Ann in cobbled Cowfair,daily shaped their homespun ware.In such 
humble women,cottage-tied,a rare and dextrous art did reside.Fashioned 
out,stitch by stitch,pillowed lace in patterns rich.Tinkling bobbins with bewildering 
skill,inch by inch grew the intricate frill.Twisting threads in pairs and 
groups,knitted together with interlocking loops.An established craft of world 
renown grew around this county town.Plain or decorative old point lace,a lost 
rural industry of which there's no longer a trace.


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Fabel Sixteen

 Fabel Sixteen 
PART ONE
Fabel Sixteen 
 
CharlaX Fables 
 
Famous Charles' 
 
Historic “Charles” 
 
WE now explore the the Charles of HIStory or HiSTORY LOLZX. 
The History of Charles County 
________________________________________ 
Where can you find great seafood, enough history to fill several books, top-flight 
golf, first-class fishing and acres and acres of some of the most beautiful forest 
land on the East Coast?? The answer can be found just eighteen miles south of 
Washington, DC, in Charles County, Maryland -- an area that has become a 
Mecca for heaters and anglers, and a magnet for history buffs and seafood-
lovers .ed.note. This is a love poem of some propulsion to see iff she is looking 
closely at the mee. 
Saint Charles Inn 
The Inn, formerly known as the St. Charles Hotel, was built in 1913 by Mr. and 
Mrs. Charles Barthle. It was widely known for its' hospitality to commuters on the 
Orange Belt Railroad, which came through San Antonio. Many visitors came and 
stayed for the winter season. Word soon spread about the family atmosphere 
and delicious meals prepared from their garden lover. She is so faithful and so 
blessed and gives my heart a rest she loves me best. 
          Charles Demuth (1883-1935) 

                     
"Deem" as some of his friends called him, was born in a Lancaster house on 
North Lime Street. At age 7, he and his family moved to the King Street home 
where he spent most of his lifetime. Demuth's health was frail; from an early age 
he suffered from lameness and as an adult from severe diabetes. He graduated 
from Franklin and Marshall Academy and studied at Drexel Institute and the 
Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts in Philadelpia.P.A. Lover. She travels hard 
and she has to work too much she needs to rest. 
H 



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COWFAIR TO ANCHORAGE

We left our abode in old Cowfair,haggled a price for an old shire mare.Onto the 
landlord's canal boat,lock stock and barrel for a life afloat.Farewell to our 
Buckingham birthplace and its meagre living from old point lace.Dawdled slow 
up to Cosgrove taking our meals around a blackened stove.Our moveable house 
painted castle and rose,not a life we would have chose.Eighteen fifties harsh 
and mean,coal cargo so nothing stays clean.Doff your cap,torch your forelock 
every two mile at the gatekeeper's lock.Fresh food scarce except or fish,perch 
and roach a staple dish.Clothes dry on a washing line strung,home for a time 
whilst the toddlers were young.As their number increased and grew ,places to 
sleep all too few.Family life impossibly hard so back we went to a tied cottage in 
Aylesbury's Anchorage yard.


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SEEN BUT NOT HEARD

Forbears,Edie,Kate and Ann furnished apiece with brush and pan.Each 
Victorian 'Miss' tied in service's  abyss.Far off days,now long gone,their toil each 
day was lengthy and long.With fires to light,floors to scrub,and carpets to brush 
and drub.Mops forbidden,as they smeared the dirt and begrimed their prim 
alpaca aproned skirt.They cleaned 'his' tub,emptied 'her' commode,a regular 
chore in a housemaid's daily load.Must rise at six but never to mix and no matter 
what,keep a stiff upper lip.Never lose your cool,a formal curtsey the perpetual 
rule.Half day off once per month,so free to roam and catch the omnibus home.No 
other opportunities in store except a marriage at eighteen or before.Upstairs and 
down stairs ,no in between,starting out at just thirteen and just there to please as 
Master and his Lady take their ease.