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Prose Poetry People Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About People

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lucila

So I walked into my local supermarket
to buy my weekly shipment of Kit Kat bars,
Cinnamon Toast Crunch,
and Ovaltine powder mix.

As I shake off the snow on my fake Timberland boots,
my skin,
coated in frozen animation,
thaws into warmth’s teardrops from
the supermarket’s 75 degree vents.

This moist sense of happiness was quickly interrupted
when I heard Wilson Phillips, “Hold On”
over the PA system.

Thankfully, the cutlery isle was just to my left. 
So, now, I had plans!

But, before I could commit felony’s song,
I saw her.

A Portuguese goddess
with a strut that can ruin a man’s dignity.

She had Autobahn curves,
dark brown curls of hair & visuals,
and thick flesh meat that even Vegans would envy.

Her face lacked Maybelline coated misapprehension.
Thank God!
Cause I never did like clowns.

After staring longingly at her,
like a crack head with impulsive eyes upon a broken/unlabeled bag of baby powder,
she breezed past my stifled posture and clocked in to work.

She didn’t even get a chance to smell my $500 cologne called “Piece of Me”.

So with new-found urges to grab all my groceries,
like a burglar who really has to pee,
I rush to express checkout. 

There she is.

Her register beeps in coupon lady’s rhapsody,
while my register needs a cleanup on Isle 9.

Now it’s my turn.

With girlish inner-screams of boy-band intensity,
I say, “Hi”.

She scans my apples, while I scan her melons.
The melons that the customer ahead of me didn’t want…
…they were on sale.

Go fig.

As if she read my mind,
she asks,
“Are you feeling warm now?”

“All I want is to be the heat in your moment”,
which I almost said.

But, “Now I am”, is uttered.

As she smiled with seductive demure,
she handed me my receipt
with her phone number on back.

As I left the market,
I began to get cold again.

These winds of change
became gusts of numbness.

I locked myself out of my heart.

I turned around to go back inside.

Only to discover, 
she didn’t have the key.

© Drake J. Eszes


Details | Prose Poetry | |

War Against The Flesh - Part 3

Roaming the Streets Like a Wildcard With a vendetta,
I Ignored the Ache that was Thumping Against My Brain.

                              - Like Some Sort of Haunting Medicine -

It'd been Months Since Daylight. It All Started with  
The Darkening of the Sky. Then After, Came The Visions.

                              - Street Preachers with a Cause -

Those Religious People I Befriended But Never Took
The Time To Listen to, Vanished by The Church Load.

                              - Then Came The Slaughtering -

Those With Souls as Black as The Richest Tar. Found
In Disturbing Circumstances, Nailed to Wood.

                              - All The Blood Rushing to Their Heads. -

Now All That's Left on This Limbo of a World is us.
The People Who Never Embraced nor Rejected Him.

                              - Ragdolls For The Devil -

Following The Light Brought Me To a Small Camp, A Fire 
Blazed in the Middle, and my Arrival Attracted No Attention.

                              - I'll Hide From The Fire -
                                  They Burn out Fast

If The Smoke Attracted my Attention, Then
They'll Receive More Uninvited Visitors.

                             - For Now I'll Sleep Near The Camp Not in It -
                               - Sleeping Near Company Eased The Mind -
                                               - Made it Possible - 

Random Scuffling and Gasps Followed By The Screeches
and Noises Caused by Tearing Flesh. It Woke Me From Security.

                             - Raping Murdering Creatures -
                                   Upholding Their Design 

The Noise Died Down and Uneven Footsteps Trailed into
The Distance Behind a Deranged Doppler Effect. 

                             - ....Tend to The Wounded -

You Can Talk to Them Minutes Before Their Bulb Blows,
But How Do You Console The Damned? 

                            - Life is Terminal -

A Cancer Created to Spread, and Spread We Did. 

                           - God Added Restrictions -

Every Pregnancy Miscarried by Involuntary Abortion.

                           - Humans, Following In League With Dinosaurs. -

...  If God Wants You Dead,
                                          Where Can You Hide ? ....


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Proempoem

 Proempoem 
Proempoem

CharlaXFabels

Beginners Luck

Tatterdemalion

SeventyF

 Over 1000 poems and now seventy eye have been searching for a definition of 
mye stYle
a rendition if you will of a different simpler time
a fabel maker a story teller not just a robot

You have a unique voice, like natural speaking.

this was given me today at your website
thank you very many fables made in a certain style of accomplishment 
the proctor and the related at my home planet were elated and they did not sleep 
last nite in anticipation of this antiquation to be delivered by the eye this old 
fashioned smith and Wesson oiled typewriter is so old it makes a dot between 
each word thank GOD it does not translate to the pages but the missing pieces 
of the spacecraft have now been found and tagged. The people of this  village 
think that eye am just old homeless and so eye can carry on surveillance of the 
public eye become a new Jim Dandy very handy with a pen and with a keyboard 
flowing thoughts upon the word a document of sponging taking all eye have to 
give her she gives something in return she keeps almost every word and turns 
the pages in my future book with just a look in my direction and a genuflection 
and a big reminisce The Lifer he is so avid of a fan a clear cut game boy game 
man he roots for roots and never makes a mental happy statement he is so self 
centered the quarter back is sacked and carried off the field and his sarcastic 
friend says He died he up and died just to see what the LIFER will now say and 
this is what the Lifer says about the dead quarterback. He just can’t do that he 
can’t do this to me we have a third quarter coming up the ball is stuck in 
centerfield without the quarterback to carry it to third base then we aer ruined he 
just can’t do this unto me and while he blubbers while he cries his friend moves 
away just out of sight and he the friend is now muttering this thought so dumb 
eye did not knoe that my friend JOE was so dang dumb as to confuse the game 
of hockey with baseball no its football with a quarterback not hockey what is 
wrong with me I’m almost bad as him eye had way too many beers today please 
take me to the gym and let me play with tying socks in knots and slamming 
locker doors before the next quarter comes and they carry one more quarter back 
away. Joe is so dang dumb.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Smart and Final Prose

Daylight fades, a city pulsates, and traffic is reflected in store windows.  
Hurrying headlights come out of the darkness. 
They crisscross like dueling knights.  People in the crosswalk scamper 
as if squirrels and streetlights leer gleaming yellow eyes, like watchful hawks.
The shrill trumpets of the charging gale force winds, rattle an awning,
and newly planted maple saplings bend and sway 
in random pairs.  Set in concrete planters, they hang on by tender rooted toes. 
Pages of a discarded newspaper are hurled into the air, 
buoyed on the steely breath of a frigid winter evening.  
Several leaflets scatter into the street and down the sidewalk,
into the path of one lone pedestrian.
He slaps away the sports page, that flies into his chapped, red face. 
Without hesitation, this castaway vagrant, down and out 
by the rape of hard times, will accept an offered dime,
from a passing man in a Red Sox ball cap. 
Head bent low, face hidden, a worn and dirty pea coat
pulled tightly around his thin frame, he carries all his meager belongings
in a large paper grocery bag, wrinkled and beginning to tear. 
Serving as his satchel, the brown bag, damp and worn, 
still displays big bold red and black letters 
advertising "Smart and Final Grocery"--"Located in Three Convenient Locations".
A city bus roars by, splashing through three days of rain, 
and a siren and a blaring horn is heard from the next block. 
The dark silhouetted outcast, stops for a moment, 
peers into a sidewalk trash receptacle, then continues slowly down the sidewalk.
A taxi pulls up along the curb behind him, and the attractive couple, 
dressed in evening wear, emerge, pay for their taxi, and arm in arm, 
enter Mario's Italian Restaurant, the brick bistro 
that sits on the corner of Broadway and 1st. 
It begins to rain again, and across the street people open umbrellas 
and like the afore mentioned squirrels, they scurry home to supper.
The lone man walks in the rain, his pace doesn't quicken, his voice never spoken, 
a spirit broken, ............ his sack held together by circumstance. 
A passerby takes a brief glance...just a quick, chanced moment, 
to take notice of "Smart and Final's" last stance. 






Details | Prose Poetry | |

It Is A Sin

It is a sin for Gregory to be a miser even to himself accumulating infinite fortune with a half-bedroom to show for it It is a sin for miss Zane to gain special gratitude from her male mates. Coming late every night with a different driver, parading her flashy dividends as she becomes a model for fashion updates It is a sin for Sarah, not taking care of herself with her body becoming rounder but still feeds more than an entire Orphanage. Initially, a very attractive young lady but now looks like an Old sorcerer. It is a sin for Baker to be a clergy and at the same time a gambler lavishing in style and losing without remorse Hell will let loose if his sponsor is the Church's finance. Regardless of his anointing, he's still not beyond the people's wrath. It is a sin for Dawson to drive through many open legs as he jumps from skirt to skirt and acquainting himself with all forms of underwear, playing the bad guy who never gets caught. It is a sin to stay idle and observe them wrongly drawing conclusions from every action without minding their motives or reasons analyzing closely even while sitting from afar giving no consideration to the human Nature which exists in imperfection and faint stains. It is a sin castigating the weaknesses of others while overlooking mine thereby condemning the crimes I do not commit which does not make me better either. As much as they do not know where I faulter Judging them makes me worst than a sinner.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

love ewe and blue

love ewe and blue 

aer rhyming words true
there is always inflection and poor attitude
limits of knowledge above snobbish refrains
trains run on time only in the movies
movies run on time only in a small town
there is very few movies shown on trains
blue can be an attitude blue can be a heart
love you can be used to start a heart apart from you
as you watch the blue southern train depart
from the blue stunted depot with the board walk floor
the little blue conductor yelling all aboard her
as the train takes the love and makes your attitude blue
soup mix tastes so wordy so blue so true and good
with a doubly heaping helping of a love ewe attitude


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Kis

A Kis

RICHsTgPOOR



CharlaXFabels

1one7three3
 Do eye need a kis. Eye need a girl to kis. Eye have a girl that eye can kis. 
Eye have kis her in the rain. Eye have kis her in mye heart. Eye have kis her in 
mye start of every day for years of love. Eye have only to the kis to go to read more 
into kis to find the place she dwells in this old mortal frame of yearning 
dwelling place. The kis is purple bliss of alarm blazing love waking me from 
death like a Snow White Charmed young man a captive smith to Pocahontas 
fame. A dandelion flower lost in the caverns of the depths Ianthe drowning mee 
in sea ward tufts of left and right bouts of beating on the air to keep from sliding 
to the depths of drowning in her arms of love. A leap at faith a death reprieved 
from Grounded Grave a leaping portent making waves of Gragon wings. An 
attitude of love refrained in every tuft of wind again the sound of love the beating 
of the water on the roof of tin the sound of kis inside the wind and rain. A younger 
man and woman would have hardware in the way the nose and yes the nose gay 
and the corners of the vampyrific fangs. The center of the tongue is one the belly 
button too. The snooker table has a cue it’s called the ball extender bridge it's a 
cheater it’s made to let the basest man to reach her in the wind. There is so 
many problems with people the gas is oughta sight at the pumps this country is 
no longer prominent but a third world country going south. The end of time has 
come and arrived the ruthless and worthless rule in the name of god money and 
time. Take a number wait in line what’s your name please fill this out and wait. 
The number of his namme. Have you got a credit card or payment of any kind iff 
you can give me seven dollars for an office visit eye will help you the doctor is inn. 
The man was lighting a candle in front of the computer and the lieberrian asked 
him what do you think you are doing he said eye cannot see the screen. There is 
not very many rich people in all those cars on the highway whizzing by the most of 
them is middle class or less the plastic hose on the back seat is a siphon they 
use it to get gas. Eye had too many problems at home growing up to ever be a 
father. The age factor plus the drug indicator keeps me from trying to further my 
benefactor with fodder or with mudder. The morality of this hurried fable of 
dividing documents is this a kis. 

 
  
  


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Welcome To the Soup

Welcome, Ms. Valmer!!  Glad you are aboard- now you can comment on any 
poem, right after reading it....and try your hand at your own, should you choose.
Lotsa great people here.  PS- could not open greeting sent- comp. needs 
something installed - some file, I'll have to find out how to do it.  So glad you 
joined! Luv, tom


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mocking The Raven

When I was young, I would mock the raven,
Never dreaming her harsh call was a cry
Across the water to the castle of her brother
King Bram, the Raven, ruler of the British Isles.
Never did I dream of the destruction 
That would follow this desperate plea
Sent upon the wings of a blackened crow.

When I was young, I thought childhood
Would last forever; secure in my father's care,
Content in the loving arms of my mother,
Never did I dream of the devastating war
That would follow this messenger of our doom
Carried across the seas to inflict upon our land
A war of vengeful purpose and contempt.

When I was young, peace prevailed in our land;
Our King was just and beloved by his people.
Then came a marriage, an alliance between
Ireland and England.  Queen Branwen;
Discontent, lonely, hungry for power,
Hated by her court for the intrigue
And bloody sanctions imposed upon all
Who did not obey her sanctimonious whim;
Queen Branwen, beautiful daughter of England.

When I was young, I stood beneath
The blasted pine, looking up at the black bird
As she screamed out her litany of wrongs,
Watching as she lifted her wings to soar across the water.
My father, general of Ireland, fell upon the shores
Fighting to repel Bran's vengeful warriors;
My mother, condemned by her beauty
Fell among the vanquished women.

When I was young, I did not fear the raven;
Now I live in the court of the Raven King,
He, who conquered my people for naught as his sister
Queen Branwen, the White Raven, took her life
And walks now, shriven and pale, among the graves
Of the fallen warriors; forever singing her lament
Of sorrow and regret; far too late, far too late.

When I was young, I believed in the goodness of men.
Now I am old; my raven hair is streaked with silver.
The voice of Bran echoes through this palace
As he cries out exhortations to his conquering soldiers;
As he cries for peace and fellowship in his land.
When I was young, I would mock the raven;
Now I am old and have harnessed the power
Of the raven's call.  I cry to my people for vengeance;
I wait for their rescue, as I haunt the halls of the Raven King.



[Loosely based on the legend of Bran, the Raven King of England 
and Branwen, his sister, who was married to the king of Ireland.  
It is said that King Bran speaks still in England through the cries of the raven.]


{by Deb Radke -- written for the contest 'Among the Dead'}




Details | Prose Poetry | |

7 Gifts of the Holy Spirit Prayer

Lord God,
Stretch our mind/s with deep understanding of Wisdom
To obtain positive understanding with every complications
Counsel us with guidelines in our work

Give us Fortitude, strength, Patience and Tolerance to finish in peace successfully
Deliver knowledge in our mind/s
For us to receive Piety, goodness and devoutness to get satisfaction
With Holy Fear of the Lord-God, I/we ask in the name of Father Christ Jesus to be with us now and forever.

Amen 
09122012

People can change the “our” to “their”, “him” or “his” when praying for others.


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 | |

To weather the storm

Storms above me, storms below, Storms of violence, Storms of sadness, Storms of anger Storms of people laughing, mocking my existence Sorrow, and the joy of the few lights of hope and friendship echoes Through the storms The storms surround me night and day No land sight Poseidon’s rage is all I see No mercy found, twix’t night and day But for the brief repast The gift night brings To weather the storms I travel unseen, unheard Past those who give the storm its powers To the places in my dreams Where night and day are side by side And Wolves gather below the moons Midday and night, to sing Their songs of peace Of legends from long ago Of loyalty to their pack And the fight to survive. To weather the storms I look to the wolves As a cub, to the mother The strong live to be the hunters Whilst the weak become the prey The storm takes all Partial to none it hunts One by one, boat by boat, all fall to the storm Human, Animal, Angel, Demon, the storm resides in us all waiting to take hold to drag us to its depths when hope is gone darkness rules until the Light is found hope is gone


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fishing

I grabbed my fishing pole and all the fishing lures I thought I would need.  Now, I’m on my way to fish for my daily meal.
	When I got to the waterfront, there were no fish for me to catch.  I was disappointed, so I decided to sit down and think.
	While sitting there thinking, a man came over to me.  He ask, why are you just sitting here with your fishing pole and lures?
	I told the man coming here was a big mistake, so, I’m sitting here because there are no fish for me to catch.
	The man said follow me, I’ll take you to a place where you can fish, you won’t need your fishing pole or your lures and you won’t have any regrets.
	I didn’t understand what he was saying, but I followed him anyway to see what was his plan.
	He took me to a place where a crowd of people had gathered.  I said to him, there is no water so how can I fish, what can I hope to catch.
	I said to myself, I’ll never catch any fish because too may people are here, so now my hope had been totally shattered.
	He said listen to what I  say, then you will understand why I brought you to this place.
	He stood in front of the crowd and he started to speak.  His voice was soft and gentle, like sweet honey to a bee.
	He spoke of love, kindness, forgiveness and many other wonderful thing.  I forgot about wanting to catch fish for me to eat.
	He keep talking and I started to understand.  He wanted me to fish for lost souls, so I can teach them about God’s holy plan. 
	I’m no longer a fisherman for creatures of the sea.  I am a fisherman for the Lord, that was His ultimate plan for me.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Gertrude -- Gertie -- Gertrude Stein

-- Re:  Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, Rue de Fleurus #27, Paris --

What would Gertrude.What Gertrude.What, Gertie?Have thought.Have thought what
thought?Thought thought driving,forward,remorselessly.Remorseless Remorse?Forward.Never reverse;no reverse.No.No remorse.Remorseless,spurning reverse,seated.High!Seated high in Auntie.Then in Godiva seated. Looming.Enormous.
Looming enormous.Unsinister presence. Certain presence.Definite.Definitely not sinister.  Positively looming;enormous in brown.Brown,in brown corduroy,driving Paris.
In Paris,through Paris.Looming high in Paris in Godiva.With Alice, quiet beside her.
Quiet; always, Alice.Alice always. And zipping, about -- coming to Rue de Fleurus 27.
Zipping to Rue de Fleurus.To 27. And Alice so able.Able Alice, each a.m. transcribing.Able Alice typing.Automatic Gertrude.Typing Gertrude.Great Gertrude.GeniusGertrude.Talking Gertrude.Genius talking.Great brown Gertrude;Gertie to Alice.
Absorbing, talking, buying art --- buying Matisse.Absorbing Matisse.Showing Matisse.Banishing Matisse.Selling Matisse,collecting Picasso.Great Gertrude -- genius Gertrude at court, holding court at Rue de Fleurus 27.And Leo.Gone Leo.No Leo at Rue de
Fleurus.Not at 27 After Leo, after Mr. Stein, after brother Leo.But there was Alice.Alice
was there Among Braques.And Cezanne.(Not Matisse.)No longer Matisse, but Picasso.And Picassos, Picassos, Picassos!And Alice; alongside, was Alice.Next to, was Alice.Alice
next Gertrude,Gertie, G. --- Gertrude, Miss Stein. Genius Gertrude Stein Quiet Alice
always.And a great Gertrude.A great brown Gertrude.A leviathan. A passing ship; a
great leviathan.Gertie, a genius.A hugeness.A shibboleth.But to Alice, just Gertie.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Patience

PATIENCE

We hear that patience is a virtue 
Is this true, or simply virtual reality 
When leaders are teaching our youth; 
do as I say, not as I do 
Regression to a version of the American 
truth

Impatience is becoming intolerance 
But to be patient is viewed as ignorance 
In a blind world conforming to violence 
Very few see need for benevolence

Many view crime as way of life 
Government fuels fires, causing strife 
Committing true crime with their lack of 
pride 
Our country torn by those who lied

Promoting bigotry and distaste for the 
unknown
 But these days color and homosexuality 
are lactose free 
Intolerant of equality, it’s a problem, 
clearly 
Love is love, embrace the hate 
Hold it tightly until it sees the light

Peace pushed just beyond our reach 
We realize that “hope and change” was 
just a speech 
Wars raging through the land we call 
home 
In God we trust, not this powerful regime

Speak out now with virtuous impatience 
Change is change no matter how small 
the feat
Restore hope with unfaltering acceptance 
and grace 
Serve what you stand for, no time left to 
waste


Details | Prose Poetry | |

WORLD WITHOUT WOMEN www

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


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

(c) 2010


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Laughing at Us

Times are the best when baby sis and I get together; no special reason or holiday, 
just to have fun.  Miles separate us now along with eight years but when we’re
joined, it is hard to tear us apart.  I believe we think too much alike; both of us are
carefree and happy go lucky; we even look alike - poor thing.  I believe we 
acquired our slap-stick personality from mother, she always made us laugh.  I 
recall the time sis invited me to come to Tennessee and go visit the Lynchburg 
Barbecue Cook-off with her.  I had had a left knee replacement the year before 
and still had to get around in my wheeled walker with hand breaks and a let
down seat just in case I needed a chair and couldn’t locate one.  She pulled 
me all over the cook-out area backwards.  Someone from the news staff was 
doing a story on the cook-off and saw me reading a Lynchburg news paper while 
being pulled backwards and asked if they could take my picture.  Well, I found 
out that they already did and it was to appear in next week’s edition.  We had our 
fill of delicious barbecue, bought some homemade fried pies, bought a few 
souvenirs, and decided it was time to head back home since I had a long drive
back to my house.  Sis, bless her heart, told me to stay seated and she would 
pull me back to my car.  I helped her get me up the slope to the sidewalk and 
took my seat on the walker.  Being pulled, I relaxed a bit, we were half way there.  
Neither one of use noticed the huge separation in the walk until the walker and I
tumbled backwards, my feet and hands straight up in the air.  Sis couldn’t stop 
laughing, I couldn’t stop laughing, cars slowed almost to a standstill; traffic 
backed up.  A couple of people walking our way stopped to see if I was ok, I 
couldn’t stop laughing long enough to say I was.  Sis was too doubled over to
help me get up.  If we hadn’t stopped to relieve ourselves earlier, we would have
there.  Of all the great times I recall, that was the best.  Some people have to get
drunk or take dope; all I have to do is do something with my sister and we get high
together…

Copyright © 2011 By Caryl S. Muzzey


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Super Man

The rise and fall of a broken soul; the pressure was too much to bear
The letter S was too brave to wear. He was a symbol, a pure form of admiration. Yet his life was 
not his own; full grown; denied the freedom of one’s true life journey
He could never fathom an opportunity of free will for he lived to will free others who hide in his 
silhouette
The darkest shadow brought an abundance of light to the needy. And greedy.
An unadorned model of self-less love dug him an early grave being a slave to aiding. Although 
help was never offered to a man that had a sense of direction. Every step forward followed 
echoing steps behind.
His feet became a carrier. The load was heavy
Regret was constant. Where was kryptonite when he needed it?


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 | |

Punky

It’s haunted me lately and I don’t know why. He died over forty years ago and I 
really didn’t know him. He was nineteen and I was sixteen; I went to see him when 
they laid him out. If memory serves me well – it fails more often now than serves – it 
took about three weeks to get the body back from Viet Nam. He was the first dead 
person I would ever view; it would never get worse, so far at least. We went in and 
Punky was the lone sentinel, keeping watch over nothing, the same reason he died. 
He was a paratrooper and there were a lot of stories about how he died. The story I 
remember was that he died on his first jump into the teeth of the enemy. That’s bad 
luck no doubt. I looked at this clay figure as it lay there, dressed up like a soldier, 
G.I. Joe, and if he were breathing, he would be standing at attention. First jump; 
bummer. I got lost in the scene that day; gazing at him and wondering what he felt, 
what he did, what was his last thought. Did he hear the bullets? Did he hear the 
bullet? Did he cry or did he curse? Did he just die? Did it take a while or was he gone 
in a blink? Why is he keeping me awake at night forty years later? Is it because I 
forgot his last name and had to look it up? I wasn’t close to him but I forgot his last 
name; not cool. I remember staring at him and thinking, What would I do if he 
opened his eyes right now? He didn’t, he never will again, he’s dead. He was in a 
casket in his full uniform, and he was under glass. People said he was caving in the 
night before and they asked people to leave until they covered the casket with glass 
so he wouldn’t cave in. It reminded me of gazing at an exhibit at a museum, you 
know, under glass and all. I don’t know if it reminded me of a mummy or a cafeteria 
line with a glass in front of the feature dish, but it did. I can still picture him and his 
hair was like that doll hair they used to use, all stiff and fake-looking, maybe it was. 
And he had make-up on because he was turning weird colors, maybe black or 
purple, it took a long time to get him back. I remembered thinking, why did they 
leave the casket open? Maybe they thought we would want to see him one more 
time. Maybe they thought if we saw him, we would go join the Army and die for our 
country; we didn’t, I joined the Navy and got high in Rhode Island for about three 
years. Viet Nam wasn’t my country anyway.

02/27/2011


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mort De La Mort, The Death Of Death

There is something intoxicating about the absolute stillness of night
I am most at home, at ease, the tell-tale heart of a vampire
Indeed, I have never been anything but, born into this life a demon
Spawned into this life by hate and resentment

I have fed upon everyone I have ever known, everyone I can ever remember
All that was human in those around me, seldom have I not destroyed

I have been merciless, I have been death

 

Tonight, the hunter becomes the hunted and who would have known it
Magnificent a creature, a natural born killer, meeting her bloody demise

What was a heart of stone has now started beating to the sound of human dreams

I can only thirst for one thing, with satisfaction impossible elsewhere

Him, my reaper donned in perfect flesh
A powerful being that has broken me so entirely, I have been forced into mortality
I am a mere shadow of the monster I used to be

 

The tragedy that is seeing life with the hearts eyes, I offer myself to him completely.

I will not move, I will not run and I will not hide

Tear me to pieces like I have torn all I have ever encountered, I yearn for it

Every cell in my body begs for our final dance, the Waltz to my own demise
Now, to look upon you would be worth a thousand deaths, and I invite them all
Find me, take me, end me.
I will rest in the memory of your flawless face for eternity, as hell welcomes me with
open arms.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Never make a perminent decision on temperory feelings

Never make a perminent decision on temperory feelings. I cant take back the words i never said. When me and you are together nothing is better . He was so easy to love , but i guess love wasn't enough .The past is ment to be left behind , the present is ment to be lived now and the future is ment to make you everything you are. Ending everything isnt as hard as it seems i guess it will just make everything ok for me. People don't change , they just become the person they were really supost to be .


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Every house has a secret

Every house has a secret
Every secrets crack like  old paint brushes
 Years of hidden secrets can jeopardize our future
No matter how well kept
Unlike the true identity of Mona Lisa 
Some secret are best kept untold 
 
Within each house a heart is broken
 Each room is a constant daily reminder 
However, once it’s broken it’s impossible to fix
Secret and lies cause a sense of nagging conscience
We all need a chair in Washington 
To turn around and vouch for us
However, not this time, not this time
We the people have to make it happen


Details | Prose Poetry | |

MY AFRICAN WOMAN

Open Letter To The Golden Black Angel

The black angel on earth, the one proud of her skin
The hot chocolate in Africa, the one with glorious power
The ebony strength beneath the sun, the one full of sensuous splendor.

The golden black angel, the one flying the clouds
The shining star in the rich land, the woman defining beauty
The rich, the warm, the dark, the glittering flower breathing in Africa.

Just look at her eyes, the narrow eyes sliding to the sides
Just give a glance to her ruby lips, these syrupy, luscious and tepid lips
Just stare closely at her smile, am sure you are zooming the sun.

I feel her hypnotizing presence, the soothing aroma in the world
I feel her soporific nature, the one that naturally sends me to the sky
I feel her wafting movements, the movements worth every sane eye
I feel her tantalizing voice, Scandalizing my ears to lick it.

Am i forgetting her curves, the curves surpassing enchanted love potions?
Am i forgetting her manners, the manners giving me bedroom tendencies?
How can i? How can i not talk of the African woman? Eh? Tell her i adore her

Yours African,
Mzee Mwau.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fooling us All

Dumbing us down
no wonder we don't know
unaware for so long
feeding 
on what's been eating us

"but the bait tastes so good!"
we say
drooling diabetes down lazy lips
entranced
by high definition devices
all the world's shiny entices

and then there's addictions
the medications 
vibrations
frequencies 
they're fingering Mother Earth's atmosphere to
seducing mankind 
with the silence of her screams
raping our nurturer
as we remain oblivious

these elite thugs
conducting violence above the law
fooling us all


Details | Prose Poetry | |

It's your prerogative

To cleanse your life, empty out it's past and move on, to leave no explanations, no pity, no shame. To usher the insensitive to the living and the not, to delete faces from your photographs and smile once more. I'm owed no explanation, as I was never bought and was never returned, but my past litters with others excrement. I'm sure you'll do it again and you've done it before, used and disposed, cared and then lost interest; I'm more sure that there'll be occasions where I'll be or have been the same. At the disposing end though, it's instinct to look for recovery, the need to fight is always pointless nowadays. But what can you do?

There's a million different ways to move on or to diminish, and to do either one you have to experience both. It's your prerogative to do as you please as it is mine, and that's all.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Stolen Hearts

Cold, callus, crying, shivering,
and covered in sweat.
Wondering what has happened.
Not yet understanding this fate I’ve met.

What of a guy that stumbled around,
just trying his hardest to show he’d been found,
after all he had just been purchased
from the human pound.


That promise to you.
Man I broke it.
I told you Id stop,
and for a time I did,
but that stuff two blocks away,
my will power just wasn't work-n.
My wrist watch again broken.
Always from the look on my face,
you could tell Id been smoke-n.


You tried.
You tried so hard,
but the mind wasn’t mine.
only a shell of what used to be,
all of me you were trying to find,
and I didn’t get this till my alone time.


I was pushing.
You were pulling.
Then it all pushed you away.
It was all down hill from here,
so naturally you couldn’t stay.


I sit here so sad
for the way you must of felt.
Let alone how you dealt.
Ill never understand how I could do this to you.
You're so prefect,
even your aura dances in ambient light.
You’re the best friend I could of had,
and that leaves me really mad,
that the rest of the world
may never know what we had.

The thing is I know now,
that you loving me.
This really was Much more,
than I loving you.

~Ha,Turned around this insecurity was always mine.~


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I HAVE YOU

(Dedicated to Penny Wilcox)

Nice people, rear to come by without ulterior motive
 Good fellows tend to strain from doing what they do
Because of unpleasant surprises they sometimes get
Bad girls are everywhere pretending to be angels
Animals in human physique living “animalistic”
But you are different, of exceptional attitude
I believe that your virtues are divine
You are a fabulous creature that really exist
Radiant, full of happiness and love
You are sweeter than honey pie
Eagle –eyed with supersonic focus
My first love that saw the need to smile in me
And always encourage me to do smile
You are not too old to be my sister
Neither are you too young to be my mother
I am whatever you want in me
Very perfect to be my friend
The first to know by revelation that I’m blessed
I know I am a blessed man because I have you as my friend

© 2010 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Alone on a Planet

alone on a planet,
the planet he was born on,
the planet which gave him strength,
which gave him everything he needed,
what he realizes is the planet wasn't what he thought it was,
the people weren't the people he thought they where,
the human being is not even the human we know about.

Into the deep detail of the human skin he goes,
what he witnesses is huge symbolism coming from the universe,
every form bonding with another form,
the form which bonds ,
keep on bonding as life is a infinite form.

What he discovers is he is in a delusion which is preventing him from becoming complete,
a delusion coming from the higher system such as religion & politics.,

The system which infects our mind ,
making us manipulated for its selfish desires,
the system which turns us into a auto destructive machine,
the system which is not going to let you discover the infinite and what you truly are,
the system consisting of a rebellious negative energy created from the principle of pure destruction.,

A system controlled from another form of life which wants us to remain slaves!,
slaves it wants us so we wont become complete as it fears us!. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

It's Great To Be Alive!

Tamera liked to run in the cold, on a whim she stopped by Woolworth and bought a package 
of hot tamale candies to eat after her run.  She loved having a reward for everything.  
Wearing her golden sweatpants Tamera decided to run laps, which she loved to do on the 
track alone late at night as the moon tipped his head and winked at her. She started this 
shortly after her divorce.   It was cathartic for her to watch her warm breath rise in the cold 
air.  Running in the winter made her feel alive to be so cold, to run and beat the elements. 
She loved the feel of the wind in her hair as she ran.

She didn’t notice the man that joined her, until he passed her.  She hadn’t seen him before.  
He had a Florida Gators jersey, orange sweat pants and a blue ski hat on. She liked his 
strides, they seemed fluid.  She had only been running a few years herself.  It was a hobby 
that she enjoyed.  Having company on the track felt good, normally she had the track all to 
herself.  She usually left after running three miles.  Tonight she felt like running more laps 
than usual.  She kept running.  Her new friend kept running too. Tamera was always 
competitive. Who knew maybe she could outrun him.

She found her rhythm and felt the adrenaline rush of the endorphins finally kick in. That's 
what she like about jogging, the endorphines. It felt freaking out of this world!  
Her heart was beating fast, her breathing was steady.  Her strides were growing wider and 
longer.  It felt so good to Tamera to be alive and one with the track.  She almost felt like 
she was flying over the Grand Canyon.

She kept running and running, until she could hardly feel her legs.  They felt numb, she heard 
the crowd as they cheered for her.  She saw every handsome man that she had ever known 
standing on the sidelines naked as they were cheering for her.  She smiled at them as she 
passed them by like a blur, for she was so fast.  She imagined her ex-husband lying on the 
ground rolling around in sheer pain as she ran all over him to win the race.  She saw herself 
jumping over the highest hurdles with the grace of an agile deer.  She was in her runner’s 
paradise. 

After a while, she noticed she had the track all to herself once again and her handsome 
gentleman, Mr. Moon had also moved along.  When she checked her mileage counter, Tamera 
had run eleven miles.  It was a great run, the best she had ever had. It was a great night to 
be alive!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Rambling of a Faith Poet

Sometimes it is hard to know what to write or when to write when you have just about every
thought possible flowing through your head. I wonder, "Should I please the public with
how "poetic" I am or should I please You? I know what the answer is but at times I'm 
worried about being liked or whether people get me. Is my belief in Your Son too far
above their heads or will they get it? Should I even worry about public opinion? Of
course I know as a follower of Christ, sharing my testimony and telling them about the
Lord is what I'm supposed to do. On the other hand, have I become to preachy and
dull? Am I shoving my beliefs down their throats? Then I realize, didn't Jesus make
himself of no reputation? Everybody thought that He was weird, blasphemous and not
qualified to tell them anything when it came to how they were living. I'm only here to do
what He wants me to do, nothing more, nothing less. If I do my part, the right people will
hear it, love it and appreciate it. All I should do, is write the word and leave all my
"rambling worries" to Him.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Prayer

From the solitude of the clouds, the safety of the heavens,
I have started falling.
Swept to ground by forces stronger than anything I have even known,
his arms, they’re calling.

Oh, to be a flower in the bloom of his love!

The irrationality, the insanity which lies amidst my overwhelmed heart,
not even my head can reason.
The days have become little more than a blur of perpetual motion,
I am completely devoured within his season.

Oh, light me in your sunshine, paint me in your snow!

Fear has become the devoted lover and friend my endless nights endure,
a poison running through my veins.
Constant thoughts of my own shortcomings and my putrid flaws,
potential happiness they stain.

Oh, I will fight to be the reflection of perfection you deserve!

Still I am, not moving an inch, and every night I pray of god and the universe,
I beg of you all, let this be.
I have never in all my years yearned for a mind, body and soul this deeply,
that face, forever, is all I wish to see.

Oh, let this be the reality I see in my most perfect of daydreams!

 

Amen.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

An End to Aloneness

In my life I often feel I am alone; alone in my thoughts, alone in my musings, alone in my day-to-day movements and unsatisfying activities. I move like a ghost through hallways and down sidewalks, unnoticed and, at times, gratefully so. 
I do not wish to be eternally alone. I long for togetherness. But despite this desire for a real connection, I find myself regularly retreating from that temperamental beast that is human interaction. 

“Come on now, sweetheart. Don’t lower your head. Don’t look away. Look up! Smile at someone! No! Don’t go back into your bedroom. Don’t lock the door! Why are you doing this?” my brain will plea. 

I can’t help myself. Aloneness is comfortable. In being alone, I don’t have to worry about anyone but myself. I don’t have to please anyone else. I can think anything I want, wear anything I want, listen to anything I want, and laugh at anything I want. 

And still there remains that nagging desire to be loved and wanted and needed by somebody. I do not know the feeling of being truly desired. I do not know what it is like for someone to crave my company, my smile, my kiss, or my touch. 

                                                                              But I would like to…

I cannot make someone love me or like me or want me in some primal way. It may hurt, but I cannot make that handsome boy want to hold my hand or brush my hair back behind my ear. I can only struggle on. I can only work within myself. I can only try every God damn day to hold my head up, keep my eyes fixed ahead, a give the world the best smile I have. I and I alone can bring myself out of the safety of my bedroom and into the bright world that lies beyond that locked door. 
	
I often find myself alone with nothing more than my thoughts and the ever-strong glow of a computer screen. But no longer will aloneness be the constant in my life. It is true that never having known the caress of a man’s hand on my thigh doesn't make me any less of a woman, but I fear that if I stay confined within myself much longer I will begin to become less of a human. A flower cannot grow if it retracts its leaves and petals every time it feels the warmth of the sun or the kiss of a gentle spring rain.  
	
And I want to grow. I want to grow so tall and blossom so big and beautifully that every place on earth is touched by my shadow at some point in the day. And I will grow. I will push myself and share myself with the world, and finally
							                                 finally
								                                   finally
know the closeness and comfort of love and honest, unabashed companionship.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

sober

                                            s o b e r...
The fuse burns the skin; 'till years disappear in the sear. Those scars allow us to be who we are - - - urging us to bleed truth- - -  so we can speed through the blues----- fueling us with the go, the giddy up to show, with each blow we grow,---and we Leggo our Ego -------just so the doubters we encounter shout louder and louder--- tho' they ain't got a clue as to who... or what we're about, or the journey of pain ballooning our veins with insane clout-------- and we wish upon a trouble free time to be near, yet it's far...- - - like the stars in the sky----...---sobering the view...while we drink the abuse------Still, the lit fuse burns the years till our fears cry.-____so hopefully, we learn from the scars when our tears dry.


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 | |

Here I Am

Dusting off myself like a book
Drawn from a case of others.

Who will I be today?
Shall my cover be an athlete
- as I run to win the prize ?

Or shall my cover be a musician
- as I quit my other profession to 
  engulf my hearers with sound from
  my heart plucked.

Even better, my cover be myself
- as I attempt to beacon me
Though it is but a trifle to some
It seems to beat all the other covers combined.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Missing Mouth

On a warm Thursday morning
my mouth leaped off my sleepy face and eluded 
my messy apartment.

It went absent for years.
All the “missing” signs with $100 dollar rewards
did not pay off.

So I had to cope with people’s kind aid.
They ate off my food bite by bite,
verbalized what was on my mind,
and smiled instead of me.

It was awful being lipless.
The joys that came with my mouth were suddenly omitted, like:
Leaving smooches on people’s cheeks.
Laughing, (when I wanted to.)
Centering pouts to my foes.
Smiling to strangers.

Until one day, while reading the morning paper
the headlines said that a mouth had been found
lost.
So I went to the center where they said my mouth was
being taken care of.

When I got there I was flabbergasted with
what the Dentist had told me.
“Your mouth needed a leash,
that voiced tongue and
intimidating full set of teeth.
So we plucked out some of its fangs.
Oh, and its Wise teeth too.
You know all the commotion genius could do…” 

I frowned.
“And that vindictive tongue! Would
not keep silent. It screamed poems 
about licking society-inflicted wounds,
self-righteousness, individuality,
and those crazy things. So we chopped that
off too, until it could no longer sing.” 
he spoke with a hiss in his 
voice.

“I am proud to say that this is our 
greatest work so far.
Maya, you are finally healed.
This mouth was going to get you into a lot of trouble, young lady.
Now, would you like your mouth back?”

I shook my head with disapproval,
gushed into tears and stormed home.
I let my mouth go and set it free.
What use would a speechless mouth
have been to me?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Invisible Man Introduction

I wrote the Invisible man poems many years ago. These poems, and I have not submitted them all, was for a little girl who died in a road accident. They are a tribute to her memory. It was a dark and very sad time and I miss her so much. The Invisible Man poems are supposed to to show the the darkness of my world, the way I felt. They are very precious to me. Thank you for reading.

The down and out, invisible man series of poems is about a young man going out into the world and finds he cannot cope. He starts off life on a large slum over spill estate that moved the poor people from London into council housing.
As all the people that were placed their where from different parts of London, gang and turf wars began immediately. This estate was built in the middle of nowhere so the were no jobs, nothing to do and drink became a major problem in the 1970's.
Anyway this very intelligent young man young man thought if he could move away he might have a chance. But his lack of social experience meant he was leaving all his friends, family and loves. He was leaving his history, his past, his roots.
He gets a good job a nice home, new friends, but there is something missing, his real friends. As he grew older he finds he misses his hometown and becomes depressed and he cannot cope. He loses his new friends his job his home and finds himself out on the street with an addiction for strong drink.
He has the clothes he has on and that is all. He is seventy miles from his old hometown and decides to walk back and try to start again. On this walk he becomes dirty, unwashed and ripe. His hair now grey is long and unkempt and he has grown a beard which is also gray.
So he walks and walks until finally thirty years after leaving his hometown he returns. Nobody recognizes him, they think he is a vagrant, which he is. He wanders around familiar places and feels that he has at last come home.
So in his long thick overcoat, long gray dirty hair and unkempt beard, he could be anybody, so he just becomes a lonely old vagrant that people cross the road when they see him. This is a true story.
I hope I can do this series from the eyes of a vagrant and give an insight of what it is like on the other side of society.
Please read these poems with an open mind and feel the way the vagrant feels. He has emotions, needs but most of all he wants to say hello to his old friends and family, but cannot because he is too ashamed.
So he watches daily life, in his old hometown lonely, an outcasts sense of belonging. He is The Invisible Man.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Narcissism Exposed

One person sees too many photos on FB and says..."narcissism". Another one sees the same photos and says...."an attempt to cover pain caused by self loathing". One person sees a photo and says..."indecent". Another sees the same photo and says..."a cover up for rejected love". One person sees a photo and says..."attention gimmick" another sees the photo and says...."the face of loneliness". God...bless the latter and give wisdom to the former!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Slowly fear, and sweet

Dear God,

You've probably heard this prayer
a thousand times over, and yet
I feel like I need to say it everyday
even if it's just for me

each day I realize how scary 
this world really is
and even more how frightening 
it is inside myself 

if only it were so easy to let go
as if there is something 
I want to keep inside
like if I truly to let go
I'd lose something

even though my mind is a war zone
but there is just 
a little something that 
hangs onto the notion of You

help me to love people
outside of myself
please guide me to walk,
slowly fear, and sweet


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Beautiful Apparition

It is not hard to fall in love with a beautiful apparition. You don’t know them, but are easily 
entranced by their chemistry. Your brain ignites a myriad of sensual wishes. Carnal exploration 
and fantasies played out in seconds, heating your heart like an oven. They disappear as quickly, 
a wisp of smoke, but you miss them immensely. A hallow feeling leaves you weak, sad, and 
alone stretching for minutes, days, or years till the next one steals your heart. Man or woman, 
boy or girl can manifest and escape around corners and be gone, but in the moment you had 
them for eternity. The Petrarchan romance you read lives in their dance and laughter. No one 
goes without this fictitious ache; it follows you as your shadow does, comes to life as often.

Looking serene a placid lake reveals a reverse world where everything is as real as the earth 
you tread, as vivid as those memories you hang on walls. Veiled in disbelief as a mere image 
those waters taunt you with their likeness. The ghosts you long for are down there, but there 
they know you as the beautiful apparition


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Busybody

My next door neighbor
is a busybody
obsessed about
butting into your life
whether you like it or not...

He talks without speaking
hears without listening
I am not one for long walks
unless he were to take one off a short pier...

Perhaps he lives 
in a most shallow place
addicted to gossip
especially if it is about you..

He is a nosy busybody
making things worse than they really are
one of those infectious people
who does research on the cause...

I have always promised myself
never to get involved as such
doing reading about this so called disease
maybe by talking about him I have become infected...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Rwanda's Why

I'm driving through such beauty, this lush rural countryside. I find it hard to believe that my 
career has taken me to here. Being where I am is so much different to the Highlands from where I reside from.

Thankfully my 4 x 4 takes the endless rutting roads with aplomb. Mind you, sometimes they remind me of back home, councils never repairing.

As I drive, visually I see scattered belongings. Has the wind carried them to there, as I stare, whilst driving, mm!

The long and winding road takes me to where I've come from. The Coffee Plantation that allured me here initially, empowers me to think back to it's early days. The wanting of the locals, hungered for work, steady monies, quaint prosperity from their already empty existence. 

The next day, I hear on the news, that Habyarimana and the Burundian President, Cyprien Ntaryamira were on a plane, shot down, all were lost.
Having met Juvénal Habyarimana before, it saddened me totally.

The next day on the local radio, I hear there's been disturbances. Like many places in Africa, it was the norm. Onward I went about readying for work. Off I go, before I reach the entrance, a crowd rushes towards me. Angry to say is an understatement, vociferous they, wielding anything they can lay their hands on. Branches, planks, irons, machete’s to name. I'm now needing to veer, to not hit workers that I recognise.

I stop a few miles from home, sweated, shaking, as to why?

To get to my Coffee Plantation, I have to travel through the local village, town, call it what you may. As I near, like yesterday, strayed clothes abound, but different, and so much more. This time they're reddened, stained, adorning ripped bodies.

Now frightened, I travel on foot, walking through blooded carnage, my stomach churning.

Children clutching their mothers, fathers and sons I assume holding hands. Young girls taken, forsaken, their life seeping into their lands from where they lived.

As I near the village, town, there's shouting, chanting, the stench of burning flesh. Upon view, machetes wield down on many, amidst cries I've unheard of. Limbs now release, torso's tired, fired, my eyes streaming tears for fears. 

In frightened stare, I'm spotted, sadly by my neighbour. He points at me, my heart surges, scared, disturbed by what I've seen. Instinct tells me, run, and I run, Lord do I run.

Upon reaching, fumbling I am for the keys, this image I'd only thought was in the movies. Now where I ask, knowing where I am. For once amidst this, I think, border, which border, as I decide to head East to Tanzania, knowing we have a sister company there.

It's later that day, my eyes now in tears. 

On the news, knowing people I see. Their hacking children, pregnant mothers, fathers and sons.
What's taken this for the Tribes to have undone. I worked with both sides, for many a year. 

I now look back as I'm summoned, to give evidence at the '100 Days of Slaughter'
Caught up I am, to declaring Rwanda's loss, of my Tutsi wife, and our daughters



. 11th Oct 2014.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

PROUDLY AFRICAN

Nobody decides the continent he comes from,
No one influences the nation he belongs,
No child ever choose his or her own family,
All happened by fate, or rather a divine arrangement.

I am from Africa the origin of life,
Nations of the black people,
Homeland of heroes now and heroes past,
Land of wealth and riches,
Where milk and honey flow like river.

Bounded by water and land,
I am African, beautiful and elegant,
Extremely black and exceptionally bold,
Having a heart of gold with a diamond skin.

Very rare with uncommon values,
My fist are made of iron,
I’m made to love God and mankind,
Always to defend the good and fight evil,
I am African, born African, proudly African.

© 2011 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

"V~O~V"

"V~O~V"


IF I WERE GRANTED FORTUNE N' FAME...
THOSE WHO CONSIDER ME LIABILITY,WOULD ACKNOWLEDGE ME LOVED
TH' SPILLING OF MY BLOOD,MIGHT EVEN BRING A STITCH OF COMPASSION
I'D NEVER BE ALONE,'LESS I REQUESTED ME LET BE


COMPANY DOES NOT LOVE MISERY,SO NOW I'M KEPT AT A DISTANCE
ALL I EVER WANTED OUT OF LIFE,WAS TO RECIEVE AS MUCH CARE AS I GIVE
BUT MOOT IS TH' FACT,THEY WANT ME OUT OF MIND N' VIEW
LITTLE IT IS KNOWN,OF TH' AFFLICTIONS I MUST ENDURE...FOR THEM


IF I WROUGHT MIRACLES AT WILL,TH' MEEK WOULD 'DEED RULE
SINS OF TH' SHAMELESS,WOULD ALL BE MADE KNOWN
A SILVER'D SCREEN OF TH' SKIES,WOULD DISPLAY THEIR DESECRATIONS
VICTIMS OF THEIR TRESSPASSES,WOULD DECIDE OF THEIR FATES


FAR FROM BEING PERFECT,I TOO...WOULD BE ASHAMED
BUT FOR SCARLET OF PAST BREACHINGS,I WOULD BEG FOR TH' BLANCHING
NEVER THAN LESS...THEIR WILL WOULD BE DONE
FOR FUTILE IS FORGIVENESS,IF NOT TRULY...


...IT IS WON



~AZAZA~'09


Details | Prose Poetry | |

his touch is a drug

his touch is a drug
he saunters through my mind
i fill my lungs
breathing in his smell
his legs
his wrists
his shoulders
his skin
are beautiful
his eyes like the sky
he hides beneath his hat
beneath eyebrows
behind glasses
behind beard
behind dry wit
as if to keep out the
unwelcome
world
his wild hair
tangled and tousled
tells the truth
that he covers
his touch is a drug
and i want him


Details | Prose Poetry | |

RAINFALL

Whenever rain falls,
It is an answered prayer for the fruitfulness of the earth
The earth buried seeds spring up in freedom
To give expression to their potential
It is the glory of the trees in the forest
That after their death, they live on
It is joy of animals in the jungle
For they have more and fresh food to eat
Only the earth prayed for rain
The seeds buried down in the earth,
The trees of the forest, the animals in the jungle
And more benefited from the earth’s prayer
A word of prayer in faith according to His will from you
Could affect millions just at that point you are standing

(c) 2007


Details | Prose Poetry | |

letters to Mary

I pull my shirt off to check for the bulls eye Today it’s there so I’ll run and hide but to no avail I’m the pawn in your diabolical tale premeditated and calculated guess I missed the cookie crumb trail no clues are friendship was going stale you stabbed me in the back knowing I'm emotionally frail You blind sided me and so likely is the story that it’s just my luck Now I’m always your excuse when your talking about why you can’t drink it up I hope you chock on those lies you poser You’ll never help people your an emotional bulldozer Maybe one day you’ll suffer from real emotional ills Believe when I tell you It Kills Everyday I take a handful of pills even then their is no guarantee There's are days when negativity and overwhelming pressures consume my very being and the crazy thing is the seeing because it’s believing witnessing me in a blank stare I’m conscious, but no one’s there Just - My - Stare Inside I’m busy with my clipper ship I’ve floated upon your hurricane and every little happy moment we ever had has crying stinging pellets of mad


Details | Prose Poetry | |

BAGAIR PARCHI KAY

MAY HOON NISAR FATIMA
PAKISTANI SHARIYAT KI HAMIL
M.PHIL FROM PAKISTAN
EK USTAD KAY MANSAB PAY FA-IZ
HAN! MAGAR BAGAIR PARCHI KAY
BAGAIR PARCHI KAY PIR BHI PAKISTANI HON !
JAHAN BHI JAO, SIRF
PARCHI KA TASKARA KARTEY HAIN LOG
MAGAR MAY TO EK USTAD HOON 
WO BHI BAGAIR PARCHI KAY !
KABI, DEGREE MILNAY MAY HAZAR RAKAWATAY DEKHI
TO KABHI TARAKI KI RAH MAY PARCHI KI TALAB DEKHI
JO BHI THAY SILSALAY, WAJA EK HI THI
KUKAY, NISAR FATIMA BAGAIR PARCHI KAY HAI!
JAB BHI HAQ KAY LEYE LARNA CHAHA
PARCHI KA NAAM RAKAWAT HI BANA
KABHI CHANCELLOR YA KABHI VICE CHANCELLOR
PARCHI NA HONAY SAY ! KAHANI ADHORI HI RAHI 
KABHI HOSOLAY ILM MAY DUSHWARI
TO KABHI ROZGAR KI TALASH MAY MUSHKIL
AJAB KASHMAKASH KAY DARMIYA THI ZINDAGI
KUKAY NISAR FATIMA THI! BAGAIR PARCHI KAY
WO AAJ BHI HAI BAGAIR PARCHI KAY
PUR-AZAM, PUR-JOSH, BA-HOSLA!
EK IMEED KAY SATH! 
ANAY WALY KAL KI MUNTAZIR
LEKIN BAGAIR PARCHI KAY! 
MAY HOON NISAR FATIMA
IS YAKEEN KAY SATH
YEH JO JITNEY PARCHI WALAY HAIN
SIRF IS DUNYA KAY MATWALAY HAIN
IS KAY BAD KA HISAAB! 
HOGA, MAGAR BAGAIR PARCHI KAY 
SAFAR THA SAKT MAGAR AHISTA AHISTA
GUZAR HI GAYA AKIR! BAGAIR PARCHI KAY

SHAISTA MANSOOR


Details | Prose Poetry | |

lost trust

You don't think am trust worth
Since someone jealousy to told you a lie
So that we separated and they should have a chance
I didn't do wrong at all people are just jealousy

You might loose trust in me
But for me I know I still trust you
Don't ever listen to people who tell a lie
The job is to just destroy our engagement

You think I cheating on you
But I didn't instead I loved you
Even my heart still claim you
Although you don't want to talk to me
At least try to remember me
Since its all about you and me
Although someone jealousy make you not believe in me
I wont stop until you live with me
And be forever with me


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Chounds like

 Chounds like 
100hundred58 
 
 
 
CharlaXFabels 
 
Chounds like 

 Eye chased mye deer into the rough the golf was tough and leathery the ball 
wound up in the gulf near the coarse leather coat the top coated layer of infinity. 
When every internet address is placed into the category suited to it best and 
every number has been named and everyone is best at what they do not just 
where they are could it be hard to let them off to la la land to make them just to 
understand the slot the slotted place therein. The lob lolly cained there was two 
of them they rub and shudder expectantly in exctasy like twine boarding a fence 
posting to the dead letter offices in all the land. The firmimentnation of the united 
stations was attacked with hate the rabbit tripped over the log anon and said 
quite frankly my dear eye don't give a darn who who is. They drugged the maiden 
dragged her screaming from the bed the water stain will set in the rug don't ewe 
understand it was to be this afternoon not later in the day not tomorrow anyway it 
has to be soon after noon. The goon dropped a cup and he grumbled and he 
gripped it in one hand and it slide like the banana peeling from the tree shaded 
oasis banana vines green black men picking them forking bales of hey what was 
that noise a student in the background just redialing all his porn so sure that all 
those girls are doing time to make him worn. Egads the Chounds are about us 
they have been released on Edgar come Allen forward POE. They foxed the 
kittens and sometimes the medical officer gets some extra hush money to look 
the other way is danger danger warning warning the alien is coming. When you 
must explain anything a joke or silent laughter a penny for your thoughts the 
hidden manna best sometimes to leave unsaid the thing so evident for iff she 
has not gotten it a lenghty explainnation will not further it along the windsome 
parapet the jester faking it has lost the thread the limits of the outer kind 
surpassed in unbelief. Nothing is perfect in scrabble blast eye have noticed 
sometimes there is only one tile left over but it still gives ewe the option of 
scrambling the letters and it even tosses the tile up in a vain attempt to move the 
thing in semblance of the shuffeling required by law in this game. Survival 
dictates like a witch brewing portents in the ditch poor and sinful man disgraced 
walking to the human race the chounds to chase. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A TRUE DESERVER

Thanks for being my life,
Which I could live my own way.
You deserve my breath that beats my heart.

Thanks for being my mother,
 You nurtured me from roots of my life.
You deserve my soul that you’re only by birth.

Thanks for being my father,
You sacrificed your big smile even for my small dreams.
You deserves my company whether in your bliss or in pain.

Thanks for being my elder,
You’ve given me sacrament for my sacred life,
You deserve my respect which is really for you.

Thanks for being my teacher,
You are a reason for making me sagacious,
You deserve my wisdom that is of yours only.

Thanks for being my friend,
With you I can share my feelings,
You deserve my luck through all the paths you go.

Thanks for being my love,
With you I can lead this life of mine,
You deserve my love  in return double than yours.

But still the one is missing- A true deserver,
To whom I daily request to sanctify me, who is creator not only of mine but of all 
those mentioned above,
He deserves my entire life from when I started my life.
 You can call him in any language,
Whether as god, Allah, Jesus but the soul is same.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Holy Passion

ALERT: A carpenter's son is loose in the Temple
Birds flutter, animals hustle, merchants scream.
The zeal for Jesus' Father's house consumes Him
As the place for foreigners to pray had become a zoo.
 
ALERT: A prophet is setting up for a Baal battle.
Baal's priests even cut themselves yet no fire.
After taunting, Elijah fills his altar with water.
Calling on God, fire consumes and people bow.
 
ALERT: An old man is building a huge boat ship.
Without a cloud in the sky and only son's to help.
When finished the animals come on call to board.
Rain starts, doors close – 8 saved by holy passion.
 
ALERT: Jesus is telling a tax collector he'll join him for dinner.
Heedless of the Pharisees despising and the crowd's surprise.
Zacchaeus totally changes – offering to multiply stolen money.
A single sinner saved multiplies even more this holy passion.
 
ALERT: Peter plus are preaching in the Temple again.
After being imprisoned for just that, now rearrested.
Whipped by the authorities, the disciples rejoice -
For they've been counted worthy to suffer with Christ.

ALERT: Daniel's praying openly even after it's become illegal.
The royal advisers gleefully have the king throw him to the lions.
Strangely they don't seem hungry till after Daniel is pulled out.
So the king openly praises Daniel's God for this amazing miracle.
 
DOUBLE ALERT: Jesus is talking to a Samaritan woman!!!!
Breaking cultural barriers to share the message of salvation
To her who has been married 5 times and is living with the 6th.
She believes he's the Messiah and brings the town to Christ!
 
ALERT: Paul's going back into the same town that stoned him.
He's preaching again after shipwreck, jail, beatings, and such.
Persecution seems to encourage Paul that he's doing the right.
Passionately following the Savior who turned Him 180 degrees.
 
ALERT: Bible translators burned at the stake for God's Word.
Missionaries avoid death and disease long enough to share life.
Stirring Holy Passion in receptive people who repeat the cycle.
Changing cultures in bondage into those sharing Jesus' love.
 
ALERT: What passion has the Lord put on your heart? Mine?
Can we pray to see His will find its way in our everyday lives
So the lost shall see, hear, find Christ and grow to share Him?
Eternity is forever, this life is not. Fill us Lord with holy passion.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Blue Collar Reason v White Collar Crime

I recently went to court to show
a supposed voice of reason
paperwork that had been falsified
by one within his own profession;
to my "If the glove don't fit, you must acquit" surprise,
the only real voice of reason was mine -
the pristine-looking image 
of a con artist, theatrical profession 
had to be more important than the truth.

We tell our children to strive to become 
something bigger, better, and richer;
instead, we should be telling them to
become bigger, better, and life richer
than the superficial cheaters we usually 
have them look up to while they are growing up.



For "The Voice Of Reason" contest sponsored by Paula Swanson.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

If for no other reason -- ? (You fill in the blank) - ?

    There seem to be many, but never are there plenty.  In the begining was the word and
that he became life from the same (?) that has no ending.  If there are feeling's you would
like to express at this very moment, what would that word be ?  Would that word be enough
to immentily self-expose you are me.  "If for no other reason", you and only you, must de-
cide when you have reach the thressinghold of being "tired of being sick and tire", and for-
ever and ever when you have reach that plattoe do you seek out the word that truly will give
meaning to that interest of desire.  
"If for no other reason", do we all realize that the world owe's you nothing.  The blight of man
kind itself is that it has obliviated the courtship of "Trust" and looking in your rearview mirror
as you drive from one episode to the next, another question needs some answer's.  Can the
word that became life, would trust be able to lift you (me) from the sidewalk to the "good
season".  O'You, Can you see your Breakthrough.  You know never are there plenty but there
do seem to be many, people that has grown tire beyond just being (?) and now "If for no
other reason", you cann't allow your breakthrough to come to (?) then the season of spring-
summer and or fall, will never return to lift you away from being You.  And blessing goes on
and you will be stuck amoung the abusers forsakening the mystery of why you're so (?)..
    How do you really feel, "feel about life right now". Really, yes in the beginning was the 
word and now I know you have heard, that be became life and you and I are heir's on that
(?) and I myself do not know why you feel the way you do.  Why in Afghanistan is there to
come a day when peace describe the word of today and hope pertains an idea for tomorrow.
How do you (?) today.  Are you mad enough to kill, are you slouthful in all due season inso
enough you steal.
    There seem to be many, there very-well maybe people that shall not keep it real.  Send
our boy's home Mr. President, within the power of your might.  If for no other reason, just
because all the people are beyond their thresshold with no place to go but up, it is what shall
hide our pain - when your breakthrough is known as (?).  "If for no other reason", I feel
today, is my "Season".


Details | Prose Poetry | |

We Are Animals

fighting back instinct for modern civilization

denying truth for some desperate stab

at feeling special; above and beyond

making ourselves jealous

insecure

imaginatively punishing others for doing

what we are also doing ourselves

and despite our best efforts

and through all of our confusion

and even for being brutally, fervently

faithful 

(because it's 'the done thing')

human x is to human y

as sperm is to egg

we are animals

 

rthom10


Details | Prose Poetry | |

THAT I MIGHT MAKE A DIFFERENCE

Awaken me, Lord.
Open my ears that I may hear the voices,
Of those wo cry out for help.
Let me not be deaf to their pleas,
Lest they perish, because I would not hear.

Awaken me, Lord,
That I might make a difference.
Open my eyes that I may see those who suffer.
Let me not be blind to their needs,
Lest they perish because I would not see.

Awaken me, Lord.
Clear my mind that I may undersrtand the plight,
Of those who cannot help themselves.
Let me not be ignorant in my comfort,
Lest they perish because I was thoughtless.

Awaken me, Lord.
Open my heart that I may truly feel,
For all who suffer and have need.
Let me not be cold and unfeeling,
Lest they perish because I would not care.

Awaken me, Lord.
Loose my hands that I may reach out,
To those for whom You have suffered and died.
Let me not be lazy, or fearful of what others might think,
Lest they perish because I would not reach out.

Amen


Once when I was out walking I heard a dog screaming in agony begging to be let inside out of the cold. I just laughed to myself saying to myself that the dog was acting like she was dying out there. I paid her no mind sense the dog wasn't mine.
Later when I passed by again all was quiet. I figured the owner had let her in.
The owner wasn't home.
They went to school and to work forgetting the dog was still outside.
She Froze To Death And I Could Have Helped Her If Only I Had Cared Enough To JUST GO CHECK IT OUT BUT I FEARED WHAT THE OWNERS WOULD THINK OF ME STICKING MY NOSE IN WHERE IT DIDN'T BELONG.
Just because it's an animal that doesn't mean they don't matter or "don't feel pain like we do". Pain is pain and it HURTS. They feel it like we do they just can't tell us because they can't speak our language but they speak in every other way if we will just listen.
That dog died in agony because I didn't listen and her owners FORGOT ABOUT HER.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

TEARS IN MY EYES

Tears of  the  living but painful souls are in my eyes.
Tears of  the   children whose destiny has been robbed;
Tears of the youths whose right has been denied;
Tears of  the  old parents  seeing  their wards  dying in the hands of suicide bomber.
Tears of  the   animals are  seeing their young ones dying of starvation.
My eyes are full of their  tears.
If don’t cry their tears out, I may lose my sight.

Tear of  the sea seeing fishes bodies floating on surface of the deep,
Tears of  the birds that are  falling from the sky;  begging humanity to end shooting at the sky 
Tears of  the sand that is  seeing  millions of corpses in  shallow  little  graves. 
Tears of the  poor seeking for freedom that  look like mirage.
I can’t  stop  my eyes from crying their tears, if I do , who will understand that  people have tears in their  eyes unexpressed. 

Tears of   unborn  generations  that keeps  me awake all nights.
Tears  of the innocent babes in the womb that will be denied of their  right.
Tears of seeing images of God begging for food  in the midst of  abundant  of  natural resources.
Tears  of  nations  that  are  suffering  in the hand of monsters.

My eyes are dimed , not because of  my  age;  but because of  the suffering of creatures;   That has taken ages; and   yet  to end.
Each time I see tears in my eyes, I saw nations in  bondage  chain;
When will our tears be heard by God? 
Looking down the streets, 
I saw  creature’s  eyes pushing out from the  windows ;
In pitiful  manner, begging their God for the return of  Hope.
Written by
Pastor Emmanuel Brown Omojevwe 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Peers

Peers
Eye remember the last time eye respected and emulated mye peers they peered all over 
mee. While eye jumped from piers with pears and pares the toenails from the edifice of hice 
bewails while jumping pairs of twice brickled edifice pickled in the briny sea side limping on 
both feet after fourteen miles a day of hiking where the sun is shade. Eye have a memory 
that seldom comes but sometimes when annoyed eye remember getting mad at mye new 
friend eye made while travelling. We were sitting in the overpass of freeways looking glasses 
turned down to drain the light of flashes. Eye took mye flashlight to the concrete underpass 
and smashed it. My friend was asking what was wrong with me so eye had to get creative 
quickly. Not wanting to dismember him eye quickly said this was done at your behest not 
understanding none of this he sighed and walked away to live another day that’s best. For 
eye was only wanting solitude and rest. He got drunks and sold the knives. Drunkards 
wanting tankards full furnish many people with foolish things for below cost no advertising 
word of mouth just hand to hand attained detachments. They sell cars at second hand prices 
and deter the will to live. Telling old defeated Granny she must drive like a snail to get there 
and she will. Adding multiples of two and coming to conclusions of one more addled brain a 
female peers out her window now hoping he is still in love he must not understand the 
female mind. Tonite when eye am dead to world in vain misunderstanding of mye namme 
eye will peers from undercovers trying not to cry tomorrow eye will greet that dawn with 
happiness in time. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

TRUE MR RIGHT OR MR WRONG

No one really knows 
The True Mr. Right or the true Mr. Wrong
They all come singing, the same sad song
Her dad once told her Mr. Right
Will choose the right path to God
Mr. Wrong would lie, cheat
Make your head go round and round
Mr. Right would have dignity and pride
Mr. Wrong, false promises then hide
Ever hear Trini Mr. right or a Trini Mr. Wrong?
Full ah ma-ma-guy, fake smile...man be gone
Remember, be careful choosing Mr. Right
Be fearful of Mr. Wrong
And analyze all, their sad songs...

©Copyright November 1, 2011 by Brian Pierre-Alexander 
© All Rights Reserved


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fable 666

Fable 666 

SALVATION 

The good news is THIS, Salvation has come to EARTH. 
The bad news is to some of you; it is only found in JESUS. 
There is a prevalent personal jesus in the CHURCH today 
So that people have confused the works of the spirit with Salvation, judging 
others by what they themselves of course are doing wrong even neglection of 
Christ as the cornerstone. Also there is an inflated self-important personage 
inside people, not as something special made of GOD, but as something 
fashioned not from GOD at all, but from their laws. The first thing to remember is 
the wooden thing the CROSS, how JESUS stretched his arms and gave to us his 
life, HIS DEATH is saving us. HE laid inside a TOMB of absolutely stone in a 
place no one really ever wants to go. 
Conflict comes when people live in houses and drive cars money is the plastic 
jesus ruling all their lives and hearts. 
Let me tell you Mister LAW if you have murdered to further your influence and your 
wealth you just may someday wake up in a burning HELL. For the final chapter 
written in the judgment hall of GOD is the Hell of GOD to come from judgment to 
them all the naked and the dead shall stand there and give account of everything 
they done to a JUST and living GOD. No badge upon your chest no belt with 
bullits and with guns. No one to take your place for HE is sitting on the throne 
judging everyone. The Trick if trickery there is to come is to say the namme of 
JESUS and just do it quickly for there is horror waiting in the afterlife for someone 
misinformed in LAW. Rich men seldom win the battles with the sin. Everyone 
needs JESUS. Say JESUS and come in to a Heaven made of LOVE. 
 
           
Fable 666     
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

SONG OF DEMOCRACY

Democracy In Nigeria
It’s been ages you passed into deep slumber
Or rather you were long dead, democracy
You have striven to rise but fall many times
Your limbs were over-powered by some political demons
You have been crushed in the dust by some powerful beasts
The people with green skinned body, white spirit and green soul
Are eager to see you come alive again and take your full course
Take control to the fullness you place in their leadership
They know the time has come and now is the hour
They cry, they sing, they shout, they talk, they pray, they hope and believe
Equally important, they are ready to work, support, and vote
To see the emergence of a new democratic Nigeria
The reality, evidential rebirth of democracy in a new Nigeria

(c) 2010


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Your mesmerizing memories

Oh love do you really exist?
I cried when your call came to me 
and left me sleepless in the twilight.

Your mesmerizing memories did fly as a crow
going away from home, spreading pity
of pathetic loneliness in ghastly forests
that glow in pallid colors,and a vapor cloud
devoured the gray trunks,the desiccated stems,
the rotting roots, and the lifeless land.
The pale plains did drive them insane.
This lifeless land did harbour many
ghosts in its hollows, who haunted
many travelers. Nightmares did rule
the day.Who are you to be happy?
Only sadness is allowed to be happy,
not you. A reaper stalks this realm
in search of victims. Try not to
hide for he shall find you quicker
if you try, for he senses your desperation
dripping from your temple.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The dying in belonging

Kisses on the broken ground
tears that annoy...
bringing the inward heat outward into the busted scene

Innocent eyes become possessive eyes now
...as they look down on you
...upon you

I don't feel anything towards this sort of thing
The cold is a safe retreat from all of the needing

Shut me away
away from your gaze
away from your hands
away from your wet
away from your words
away from your feelings

It's all well, but it well never be my problem

Is it true what they say in my silence?
...that romantics die once they've met romance?

Belonging to nothing
fade, fade like the sun on the overcast heart


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Four Little Boxes

Four little boxes all in a row
Four little boxes, each has a story that people should be blessed to know
One box is fair
One box is made with care
One is covered with stains
And the last is easy to see that someone loved to play games
Four little boxes all in a row
Four little boxes, each has a story that people should be blessed to know
Four little heads, playing pretend
Four little mouths, walking on the river and around the bed
Four little eyes, seeing the world with wonder
Four little minds, adding their own touch to people's hearts
Four memories, full with pretend
Playing house, and yelling when they couldn't go out
Four little people, hugging and kissing, the purest way to mend
Four little boxes, all in a row
Covered in dust and snow
Four little boxes, put away
Never to come back and play
The first little box passed away
The second little box lost her way
The third little box grew up
And the fourth little box is making new little boxes that will one day
Maybe be put away…


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Trip to Heaven

Sitting working in my private room a grandfather clock ticks and tocks so very loudly,
Like a metronome tuned into my mind my eyes become heavy my lids slowly begin to close,
My mind drifts into very dark places, jet black places with a tiny white dot way off,
I walk towards the dot and after miles and miles it started to grow so much brighter.

Looking behind to see where I started there was nothing just the darkest of dark black,
I have no choice but to keep on walking towards the white dot now confused and scared,
After hours and hours I reach the dot but it is not a dot now it is a new bright world,
There were green fields greener than I have ever seen the trees had heavy velvet leaves.

People walked towards me they were smiling they were happy I wanted to shake their hands,
But they hugged me and held me and talked so kindly my troubles and worries disappeared,
Young children skipping, my new friends laughing it seemed I had known them all my life,
Being with these people was pure happiness we walked up to a white mansion we went inside.

A beautiful girl came running out to meet us she stood in front of me and gave me a rose,
It was the reddest rose I have ever seen it was frosted and gilded and drops of dew fell,
A man with grey hair and a white suit sat by a piano and began to play the sweetest tune,
I leaned on it's shiny surface and could feel the beat of soft hammers on wire, pure music.

All smiled and clapped when this maestro had finished my friends giggled as they saw my joy,
They asked lovely questions nice questions I enjoyed answering as they made me feel good,
We got up and began to walk back to the place where I had first met my wonderful friends,
We talked we laughed everything was about nice things I could feel the smile on my face.

Then the man with grey hair and the white suit said it was time that I made my way home,
Still smiling I desperately wanted to stay forever he saw this and said to have patience,
They stood in line by the entrance each person hugged and kissed me tears ran down my face,
The next thing I knew I was in my private room the grandfather clock still going tick tock.

I thought about my wonderful dream those wonderful people and still felt very warm inside,
It was all so very real and was very disappointed knowing it was just a lovely sweet dream,
Those people in that beautiful garden blessed with such loveliness they seemed so very real,
Standing up and stretching I saw something by the door it was a beautiful rose frosted and dewy,
It was the reddest rose I have ever seen.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

BusSeat

BusSeat My namme is Regional T.A. Eye am brand new there is no graffiti on eye but the carpet can get wet from spills so the driver asks the riders to have lids. Beany boy has a lid on his milk. Chantri is a pretty girl she loves to sit on eye she chews and pops her gum and leaves it on the thumb edge of my back just where it sticks to carpet she does not mean the harm is done. Sometimes there is a person so large she sits on three of eye. Sometimes two people fit on one and have so much fun together out the window look. People need to please remember to sit the baggage under eye we will be fine. Pay your fare and do not cheat to be with eye. Some people wait until the driver has both doors open then they ride for free its cheating while he is letting prisoners out. The handicapped never use me when they bring they own seat it annoys me eye would rather that someone carry them to be on eye. But what do eye knoe eye am just a BusSeat for the RTA. And the BusSunTran. Discrimination is not allowed on eye. Different treatment of others based solely on their membership in a socially distinct group or category, such as race, ethnicity, sex, religion, age, or disability. Discrimination can be viewed as favorable or unfavorable, depending on whether a person receives favors or opportunities, or is denied them. Please leave the curse words at home when riding on eye. No smoking. Please eat later after disembarking eye. Eye love ewe fare. Come back.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Adoption Where Ravens Fly

Nevermore - but for the told truth would this 'faceless girl of destiny' speak of life lived by the reaching, unseen silent ones! And unknowingly, it would also now take place that this teenage voice would cast as a persona iconic, an entity hauntingly Poe. ...She was visionary with recant born of 'raven-like' dues, all stemming out from, but yet still held within this country's darkest realm of infant adoption.
This was a brave soul about to take on a mission impossible as she viewed the on-watching and gathering crowd. Her conscience wouldn't care less of the fact that most of these people held close ties with the select few of adoption facilatators who were sitting off to her left, but still yet highly praised - on thier 'right' side. These were of the adoption industry's best, which she alone shared this newly raised wooden stage. And shortly, to the unbeknownst coming shock of a nation, she intended to present these people similar in held light as had shown history's offering-to-the-world - of the Nuremburg accused!
Moreover, found amongst these scoundrels too, with guilt by association, happened a cross-section of our country's scattered innocent Adoption Triad. But yet, ignorance is always the recall when a kept company is a murder of crows! ...and these are the innocent of eyes ever so much easier to have let - pecked out.
Truly, for change we must plan and plot as ravens do, even if so-be-it sacrificed is this girl's award-winning essay recital, and with whose weightily chosen speaking platform may have just as eerily now become a purpose-ending trapdoor - about to spring under these beautifully trellised self-dooming gallows...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fable Tenth

 Fable Tenth 
Fable Tenth 
 
Administration 
 
Fables of CharlaX 
Truancy was the problem for the General Police the task force was taking 
surveillance of the children in the world loose from schools at much too much an 
age so young to be locked up to have any fun on streets so tough. The use of 
drugs just cigarettes is up the money comes from illicit sex and theft just petty 
theft can be a problem to the poor. When a wallet leaves the pocket it becomes 
the community property of gangs. They usually toss the identification away. They 
have no reason to keep anything except the money. Some more sophisticated 
groups will use the credit cards but most children are only after wine beer and 
smoke and cash is there quick fix. The police van eye noticed in the back was at 
least two errant children there taken under guard to some detention center eye 
suppose they were handcuffed and treated like any other criminals hopefully 
there parents want them back at home. 
In 1963 milk for students was 6 cents. 
It jumped from a nickel one day to 7 cents but eye got mine for a long time for 6 
because eye am cute. Wait it was just a nickel then eye just realized eye have 
been robbed they was stealing all them pennies and hoarding them telling me 
eye was cute to get the goods. 
Eye the yew used to place the dimes in the march of dimes book the coins was 
then taken from us once eye had a Quarter collection someone stole it. Eye am 
sure it was the police or the Sheriff. 
Eye put money in the envelopes at the Methodist Church but it never made me 
wealthy in fact it seemed the wrong thing to do they took it and kept it no one ever 
got it back. 
Once when eye was trying to stay sober eye went camping with a dollar in my 
wallet and kept it even when eye went in swimming and the dollar never got wet 
and if it ever got wet then eye dried it on a rock wall to make it good again but eye 
was from a small town and money was hard to find. 



Details | Prose Poetry | |

there is a place,

there is a place,
where no fool is allowed
(-is it heaven or is it hell-)
no one knows and no one cares
for they all treat each other like fools
and pay no mind to such insolence as them
for they sing songs of fools
and they don't care where they go in the end.

.12.28.2013.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

BAGAIR PARCHI KAY

MAY HOON NISAR FATIMA
PAKISTANI SHARIYAT KI HAMIL
M.PHIL FROM PAKISTAN
EK USTAD KAY MANSAB PAY FA-IZ
HAN! MAGAR BAGAIR PARCHI KAY
BAGAIR PARCHI KAY PIR BHI PAKISTANI HON !
JAHAN BHI JAO, SIRF
PARCHI KA TASKARA KARTEY HAIN LOG
MAGAR MAY TO EK USTAD HOON 
WO BHI BAGAIR PARCHI KAY !
KABI, DEGREE MILNAY MAY HAZAR RAKAWATAY DEKHI
TO KABHI TARAKI KI RAH MAY PARCHI KI TALAB DEKHI
JO BHI THAY SILSALAY, WAJA EK HI THI
KUKAY, NISAR FATIMA BAGAIR PARCHI KAY HAI!
JAB BHI HAQ KAY LEYE LARNA CHAHA
PARCHI KA NAAM RAKAWAT HI BANA
KABHI CHANCELLOR YA KABHI VICE CHANCELLOR
PARCHI NA HONAY SAY ! KAHANI ADHORI HI RAHI 
KABHI HOSOLAY ILM MAY DUSHWARI
TO KABHI ROZGAR KI TALASH MAY MUSHKIL
AJAB KASHMAKASH KAY DARMIYA THI ZINDAGI
KUKAY NISAR FATIMA THI! BAGAIR PARCHI KAY
WO AAJ BHI HAI BAGAIR PARCHI KAY
PUR-AZAM, PUR-JOSH, BA-HOSLA!
EK IMEED KAY SATH! 
ANAY WALY KAL KI MUNTAZIR
LEKIN BAGAIR PARCHI KAY! 
MAY HOON NISAR FATIMA
IS YAKEEN KAY SATH
YEH JO JITNEY PARCHI WALAY HAIN
SIRF IS DUNYA KAY MATWALAY HAIN
IS KAY BAD KA HISAAB! 
HOGA, MAGAR BAGAIR PARCHI KAY 
SAFAR THA SAKT MAGAR AHISTA AHISTA
GUZAR HI GAYA AKIR! BAGAIR PARCHI KAY

SHAISTA MANSOOR


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1one2two9nine

 1one2two9nine 
1one2two9nine 
 
 
CharlaXFabels 
 
 
WiseorFoolish 

 DOING WHAT THE JESUS SAID 
Eye am risking the loss of some merits to at least prove to some of you that to do 
the works of JESUS is the right and lawful thing to do the man was just like me 
he seems to be a homeless and eye asked him to share my food he said no he 
was taken care of a food card from the service. Eye wound up giving nothing but 
a courtesy yet my blessing is unending the words that JESUS speaks are meant 
to be the life we breathe and giving is so certainly the thing to do. Not bragging 
unnecessarily just letting people knoe to do the works he says to do. Offer 
someone food if they can take it it will help you if they refuse it you can eat it 
seems to me there is nothing there to lose. Now the food eye have to eat is better 
for the act of sharing even the man is not eating with me the food it's doubly 
better in proportions. Show me the house that's built on stilts that's built on sand. 
There is a temporary church that meets inside the main church building they 
usually start the service at nine thirty today they went out on a run away there was 
no church service even eye usually go just to knell down near the table and thank 
Jesus for the offering there there is Coffee and some coffee cake and other 
things as well but today eye am on mye own attempting more than one thing at a 
time it seems beyond the eye trying to stay hooked into the wonder of this life for 
it seems like GOD is just like Santa Clause to me when we have it in our heart to 
do he sees it just the same. 
Eye still carry my raincoat my umbrella even though it has not rained for many 
weeks I'm ready. The place eye like to visit has been pulled out from under me 
the preacher needs to visit his own prayer room just to see how dark his heart is 
to become without his love. He warned me not to trespass and so far eye have 
not been back but the wonder of it all is that the place still seems to stand a 
monument to decadence a monument to disgrace. They knoe that eye am 
homeless eye still walk the street without a place. The blankets in the dump 
seem so nice when eye am cold. Foolishness or wisdom tell me preacher what 
would you do when the sky was falling would you stick your turkey neck up to the 
rain and then just drown or would you find a church with a poor doorway to get 
dry. The path is narrow the climb is steep and harrow the preacher fast asleep. 
Eye cry a homeless to the end of time. 



Details | Prose Poetry | |

118

 118 
118 
 
 
CharlaXFabels 
 
AprilFooley 
 
 Is tomorrow the end of March or the beginning of April April one or March 32 the 
way to approach the online scenario is to make it seem to be true. Associated 
Press AP: The Government in a brief memo enacted a new presidential law 
bringing the March 32 a new day into the light of day. The President of the United 
States declared leap year over null and voided. Here is the words of the transcript 
from the Whitehouse: This is President Bush talking "Eye am certain all we ever 
had to do was add a day on the end of a month when we need to in the year they 
used to all call leap year year. March now has the end of the month the April 
starts after the March 32 has come." End of quotation. The Democrats in Georgia 
have declared WAR upon the United States "we believe it to be wrong to take 
away leap year is bad enough but to add a day to MARCH is madness." The 
press corp at the Whitehouse is for once speechless. The day of the end of 
March will be celebrated all over the nation with the observnace of the Marching 
Bands of America. Send money via PayPal to Box 666 Mountain Verne 
Washingtonia, D.C. For the hearing impaired we have prepared a phonetic 
version of this message. March 32. Mahrrch Thirtee Twuu. In DRY counties of 
Arkansas this day will fall on April 1, 2008. The subdivisions housing in the 
Indian Reservations in Oklahoma will be left out. No one in Central Asia may 
observe it. Lets go LIVE to the White house to ask a question of Mrs. Bush. What 
will you do Barbara? The First Lady is unavaliable for comment. This is highly 
unusual. We remain speechless. The new day falls on a Tuesday this year and 
April 1, 2008 is on this Wednesday. All of you are April fools.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

KONY 2012 PLEASE READ AND SHARE

It only takes a moment
One second of your time
To make a change
The invisible children are starting to be heard
With your help they can be saved
Just take a moment to listen
Joseph Kony is a villain 
A terrible, terrible man
Take a second to find out why
He kidnaps children
Right from their homes
Puts them into his armies
But thats not all
He forces them to kill
Sometimes forces them to kill
Their own parents
He has no cause, no worldly plan
Just wants to grow his power
And he MUST be stopped!
If enough citizen support is gathered
We can make a difference
We can assist in his arrest
All it takes is a second
Look up the Invisible Children Inc.
Look up Joseph Kony
Look up information and join us
As we fight for these children
Who alone may not be heard
And as we fight for the capture and arrest
Of Joseph Kony
....................................................Joseph Kony 2012   We WILL make a difference!


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Colors of a Man

Oh where do we come from 
That we judge a man by his color
What heritage what rock 
Did we crawl out of 
What seed spawned us
One God 
Or many Gods
One for each color
Or maybe just one for one another
Oh colors what do you call them
When they are worn upon a man
Do you have more admiration 
For the color of a bird 
Than the color of a man


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dead White Things and Recurring Dreams Two

Suddenly - same as in the last dream, the seal pup eyes again, had 
metamorphosed into two oblong pools of a flat blackness. They now showed deeply 
vacant, unreal, each one filled with certain emptiness ..., each one devoid of 
characteristic implying of life within…
In this little girls’s mind, the pup had now transformed into a ghoulish image. Her 
vision of the apparition had now taken on an eerie out-of-place look and feeling. 
This was a feeling much the same as if a sudden appearance of a clown had risen 
from out of the sea ice; a desolate vision that had always posed to the little girl as a 
face of terror. She had her reasons...
In this dream turned nightmare, the motherless pup always chased after her, crying, 
pining, yet to avail its seek. The nearest this whelp would ever manage to get, was 
to lay in the little girl’s shadow, a taken offering in a desperate attempt to 
suppress the horror that lay ahead. – While still frightened, it would be at this point 
that the pup fell into a self-induced trance, losing itself in a deep blue memory while 
in the vastness of a white world...

...as the little girl opened her eyes, she instantly knew that it had happened again. 
Earlier it was her birthday, the clown had now left, but she knew that it was 
him. “This cannot be right,” the little girl would think. Tears welled up in her eyes, 
yet only an ensuing silence flowed.
White seal pup teardrops same as her own have no tell, only do they vanish, only to 
then reappear...
The little girl closed her eyes again, only this time, - really falling asleep – alone, but 
yet still having to dream...
...Therein, the pup woke up to a horror scene; everywhere in every view, were 
splotches of blood-covered snow. The Harp Seal colony had vanished, leaving only 
the red stained ice that now nearly encircled the white seal. Yet, once again, the 
pup would dive into the ever-receding safe confines of an eight-year old girl’s 
mind ...; miraculously having survived, to yet, – another close remind...that they 
were one and the same!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Little Big Man

I was always the little guy, 
Picked on for my size, 
Pushed and prodded in the halls, 
Cowered to nothing by their calls, 

They threw rocks at me every day, 
So I would leave early on my way, 
And wore two coats with hoods, 
Rocks only striking when I stood, 

Sometimes they'd throw boulders, 
And they glanced off my shoulders, 
And then I would come back in pain, 
With yesterdays tear stains, 

Once they crippled me for days, 
Hitting my legs, oh what pains, 
But then my dad took me in, 
And I grew into a young man, 

And two years later I returned, 
And now the tables were turned, 
You see I grew a foot taller, 
And no longer was I smaller, 

I visited those who threw stones, 
And none of them had grown, 
As I did those past two years, 
And I couldn't pay back the tears, 

For I knew their sudden plight, 
They were too small to fight, 
But they soon left my brother alone, 
This was the gift I gained from stone, 

So from bullied to protector I moved, 
And the little ones all approved, 
Of the new big friend they now had, 
And how I stopped those bullying cads.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Swing the Bat Now

Swing the bat now! Against all life mishaps 
Back taxes, bad weather and on line conflicts 
Who is watching the footage? 
Who’s keeping tags on all the poet and poetess? 

The underground Poets /Poetess words flow freely 
Creating images in the mind with ease; 
Is that artful or delightful or what! 

The mere thought of you swinging that hard bat; 
Aiming at the world: Hard balls 
We are the new revolution 
the blogger, writers, poet and poetess 
Swing low aim high. No time to hide 
lets write!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A true best friend

Murder.

My soul's contaminated with spit
and you walk all over me- 
each and every single time-
It's like I blink 
and you take one more slap
whack!
While my face red spurs out guilt of being a victim-
the one who always to blame
who is always wrong
and does wrong-
while you look down to me 
expecting.
It's neverending
and i'm unsympathetic as we speak.
Now so vulnerable and familiar to your cursed speech
lucifer's lies-
becoming true between the lies
you just start the fire.
You don't know how to put it out,
gassing it, lighter at hand 
yet you don't seem to care.
And my emotions,
they're toys-
broken, stomped on,
crushed.
Like my loyalty is not enough,
after I stand behind you,
strong and neutral-
while you whip my heart
and test me some more.
I've had enough.
And you've had plenty of chances before,
plenty of criticizing 
and it's too much,
 i'm not good enough
I'm the "bad" friend
i'm just not worth your time
so this is the end.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

141onefortyone

 141onefortyone 
141onefortyone 
 
 
 
CharlaXFabels 
EwewonthelotteryNOT 
 

 Dear Recipient: You have won the lottery. 
Please add this address to your address book immediately so that we have our 
fishhookers in you from the start. This is VIP BENDSMORE from the obscure 
village of Pretendmore in East South Africa; we have upwards of ThirtyThree 
Millions Gold Bullions Cubes taken from the diamond mines of Kenya. Can you 
send us all your unknown information so we can fleece your pockets with our 
real inventions avarice and greed; we aim our guns to please. Send us nammes 
we need addresses we want numbers dates of birth and places we need to 
knoe the namme of all the ancestors so we can dig them up and do it to them 
also we need money in the form of PayPal send it to us by the score. You are 
also the one billionth customer we have a bonus a real raw diamond taken from 
the belly of the statue of the Qyeen of Sheba standing in front of the only Pyramid 
left in South Africa the Temple of Dome. We will send you the diamond when 
southern places freezes over Rodger and outside the ball one a swing and a 
miss the Swiss have many freebank accounts we want several more. To verify 
the account we will need the account number. Make the money in various 
denominations marked in small bills at least less than the Hundred Dollars so 
prone to counterfeit. So ewe want to be a writer it is not easy ewe to consistently 
come up with new ideas day after day document after document and make it 
pleasing to the eye and to the public view. Remit the African Qyeen list the 
holdings in your vault one by naked one send the stain sealed cartons with the 
nammes of all deceased upon them make the Africa River falter in its flow with 
barges laden with the heaps of dough. Remit mee send it rather quickly the need 
is efferpheasant rapid transit in my Africa Jungle is the local version of the snail 
the backs of Natives's heavy laden with the burdens of the way upon the lithe 
black ebon forms they sway in rhythms like a long slick serpent moving in a row. 
Please add Seventy five cents for deposit. We found a founder he will send us all 
the more he is the President of Baltimore the Oriel. Ewe remember him the long 
tall one with the largesse straw hat the one who did the 7 Up commercial oh did 
eye say HAT no his head was shiny bald. Try saying that one quickly in the cold. 



Details | Prose Poetry | |

9904

 9904 
9904 
 
 
 
CharlaXFabels 
 
Ninenintyfour 
 
Autofixation 
 
A Dialog Fabel 
 Mrs. Smithster: BOSS let me help you clean up your computor today the new 
auto program disc is arrived in my snail mail box. 
BOSS: OK just don't lose any of my contacts on the list the accounts are way too 
important. 
JUNE: to her self: an aside: GET HIM who does he THINK he is giving me that 
guff so early in the mourning. 
BOSS: Poor June is my secretary and eye love her like my sister but she is so 
dense the bullits bounce off her like she is Superman, or wait no Supergirl 
mabe. 

Narrator Ed.Note: This is the twilight zoned for the next five minutiae you can not 
understand anything but this fable you have been transported to the twilight 
zone.   This Lady Bosses Secretary one Mrs. June Smithster has been the 
receiver of a program sent to her inside her snail mail marked as a FIXIT 
program disc the entire story is now centered around what comes next let's 
watch what happens… 

Charlax the Narrator: June reached into the envelope slowly and opened the disc 
cover reluctantly she was wondering now just where it had come from it was 
compelling her to use it she could feel its message somewhere near her left toe 
and the eye her left eye was twitching like a nervous wrecked her whole face was 
letting go she had to she had to over and over like a ROBOT compulsion she 
HAD to place the disc in the BOSSES computor NOW. 
June: something is almost forcing me to use this new hardware it's an alien tech 
rippoff of an image of the MOON it makes me want to dress up and wear my 
cape out. 
Charlax the Narrator: The Bosses Computor is slowly being eaten up by the disc 
all the contacts on the every list are gone the moral of the CharlaXFabel number 
9904 poor gentle reader ewe is never use a disc program to enable accounts not 
meant to be edited by ewe. The computor is now gone the disc dropped to the 
floor lets go back and see what happens now… 
BOSS: walking in to his office to check on his computor and June Smithster: well 
that is not funny did the android charlock pick up my computor for cleaning 
again? 
Charlax the Narrator:  but there is only silence from the corner of the room where 
June is laying down curled up in a ball of Supergirl costume her cape lay furled 
around her like a hobo blanket cover… 



Details | Prose Poetry | |

the Indian Tsunami

My heart cries for thousands and thousands of people
those who perished in the earthquake-spawned waves;
known as tsunami, the worst natural disaster
that caused tons and tons of deaths across Asian countries.

It’s a great tragedy, a giant blow to humanity,
with its repercussions to all spheres of life –
a wake-up call, an immediate response
that needs to be attended to and done forthwith.

Global mourning takes its course in every nation,
particularly in these countries of Asia where –
Indonesia, Thailand, Sri Lanka are faced with difficulties;
in coping with destructions, tragedies, and other commotions
indeed, an urgent call that needs an international attention.

In four decades this catastrophe has ceased its wrath,
but after that starts another episode, so terrifying
that people who are caught up in that mere situation
can solemnly declare and profess their fears.

Oh, Mother Nature! at times we don’t know
your reactions that cause pandemonium,
tragedy, destruction, sorrow, and pain to all
like this one, a very strong and powerful disaster.

However, across the world, people show their compassion
with their unwavering generosity that floods in all levels
it’s an illustration that we’re humans with caring behaviors
to all those who’re afflicted and severely hit by this phenomenon.

I can’t imagine how the world mobilizes and responds
showing their love and concern to these people in pain
loss of lives, heart brokenness, and other misfortunes;
these generate an answer to be mindful of them in many ways.

I see the unprecedented generosity that rolls in every land,
institutions and other organizations make a collaboration
in what is conceived and put into action: fund raising,
charity, and pledges of thousands of donors.

Horrific media images shown in television channels,
are remarkable pointers for reflection and yet an invitation;
for someone who needs conversion and a return to church call,
that life can be as quick as those giant waves that killed many people.

It’s a theological reflection which embraces human sufferings,
Like a pathway to profound invocation, faith and trust in Him;
Oh God, our source of strength and goal to fulfill this portion
Where we unite ourselves to all those who’re in afflictions.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

HEART BREAK

A fine morning to watch the birds
By the ocean side. My dog by my side.
Deep cool breeze
Setting ablaze my ribs
My jacket and the dog’s fur
All I needed and asked for
Perfect company and comfort
…a lonely life.

My surrounding,
Oblivion of me
And me too, void of all
Very deep in thought
Knowing not when,
I sipped from the coffee cup
Wincing in disagreement,
I jolted back to memory
By its bitter taste.
Hahahahahaha

What a way to discover.
But discovered I have.
A great deal of life is false and bitter
It’s bitter when you love
Yet, you be not loved
It’s false, thinking you are loved
But all the while, mugged

Why do you tell me
All is fair in love and war?
When I know what I saw?
The weak is the stepping stone
For the wicked
The honest a tool
In the hands of the fraud
But…
Woe to them who made you bear grudge
And…
Woe to you who got soiled in vengeance.

Nature is smart…so smart with it
For the sun must rise again
And time must heal your pain
Like the Americans will say
Every dog has its day
Dust up and take a walk
For your new lover
Might be waiting by the side walk


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Milroy Farm

Milroy Farm
11-30-08
By
William L. Moore
For
William McCracken Milroy

Sitting in my Deer stand
Upon my Uncles land
Feel the simple breeze
As it whispers through the trees

Waiting for the Deer
Not a single hint of fear
Hear the leaves rustle
In all of the bustle

As they encroach
The closer they approach
It’s really really strange
As they cross the range

As you hear the gun go CRACK
I may have hit his back
He stumbles gently away
And falls where he may lay

I must wait until he dies
Let alone through the cries
I am through with the season
Since I have accomplished my reason

Uncle Bill I thought of you when
I wrote this and wanted to make
Sure that you got it
Love
William Lewis Moore
Bill


Details | Prose Poetry | |

CHARACTER MAN

We are all creation
Running through our veins, dust!
We are all moulds
Shaped and patterned into beings
Of different moral fibre
Our lives are but a personality played
The character man in our life’s tale
Drama, intrigue, tragedy
The roles we choose to play

We are all creation
Dust runs in our veins
The character men in our life’s script
Our lives’ none but a screenplay
We write our play
We act our play
And live our play
We remain the only make-up
That matters in 
Our dramatic piece of life!

©Naa Takia, All Rights Reserved 2012.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lag the flag

Over the flag rise it
And the people think
It can be catch

Why suffer the thinking
Of people who think they can
When the flag is down forever

Just forget about it
And walk to the sun.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

ARCHAEOLOGY FIELD-TRIP JANUARY 29 TH 3011 - PART II

ARCHAEOLOGY   FIELD-TRIP  JANUARY  29  TH   3011  (PART  II)
 
(NOTE: If you have not already read  PART I,  then do so before you read this)


Though the buildings are gone long ago  
Our diggings in the places we felt were the main city  
Have unearthed   plastic  false-teeth and artificial heart-valves.
We  have also brought up plastic bowls and plastic bags and bottles, 
Probably used to carry artificially-flavoured  salted food.
(This would account for the false teeth.)
The marshy delta in the south arm of the bay 
Once supported a salt-evaporation industry.

These people knew how to use technology
And  were obviously technologically  advanced  - 
But a weak people physically. Let me show you why:
Here we see what seems may have been 
The foundations of a  great bridge across the bay  - 
And  engineering was a forte of these people.
This huge block of concrete you see in 
The middle of the water  may have been 
An artificial island to anchor two such bridges.
Movement and transport seems to have been in vehicles
And very little walking was done, (hence the heart-valve).
Huge concrete highways extended  from this city south,
Probably to  another of their cities, long gone.

Though important and widespread,
Transport was however a problem for these people,
Especially in the foggy weather which seems to be typical for  the place.
Underground we have found a complex 
Of tunnels which probably housed a movement system of sorts,
Unaffected by the treacherous climate.
And not just  land transport, but sea too.
It doesn’t look like it to our eyes, but this was a major port, 
And under the waters  of the bay
Can be found many artifacts of ships and cargoes.

Those seven or eight small hills to the south 
Of the baymouth are covered today in natural forests of sessile oak 
And shrubbery of peach-     and   grape-bearing plants 
But there are still some large Euro-latin buildings
Poking through the growth.   It seems to have been 
A prosperous residential area  of the city.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

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 | |

People Watching

I saw people walking through the streets,
As cars lazily rolled down the one lane road.
Pairs holding hands, mothers and sons,
Suited men retiring after a hard day's work.

The awkward side-steps avoiding strollers,
Exchanging waves, exchanging glances.
And gentle brushes past a shoulder,
Dogs on leashes wooed by giggling girls.

I saw a kid in a Giants jersey and sunglasses:
"Hey man, thanks for meeting with me."
He walked up to another guy in pink shorts:
"No problem, I'm glad you feel like you can talk to me."

I saw a crying girl and an angry guy
Who talked in hushed voices laced with sighs and sniffles.
They stood close enough to be lovers,
But distanced themselves as if they were strangers.
"I'm sorry," she said. "No, you're not," he replied.

I saw a guy walking to his car in a frenzy --
Phone pinned between his ear and his shoulder.
He fumbled with his keys; his eyebrows were furrowed.
"Where are you? I'm coming to get you right now."

I was just sitting on the porch, drinking a rum and coke
I sipped my drink as I contributed my silent commentary:
I thought Mr. Sunglasses needed a haircut,
Rolled my eyes at an over-dramatic couple,
Scoffed at the hysterical guy, just too protective of his girlfriend.

I didn't know that the kid in the glasses had just lost a friend to suicide.
Or that the crying girl had just cheated on her fiancee -- 
Two weeks before the wedding.
I didn't know that frenzied guy's sister had called 'cause of a car crash --
Only to find out later that it wasn't so serious.
But neither of us knew that then.

We get as close as we want to people, really.
It's our choice if someone's a nod or a hug,
A friendly smile or a glare, or even a "hello!"
As we walk down the street -- unique, but the same.
It's been said that you shouldn't judge a book by its cover,
And others say that's why the cover's there.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Forever is really never

Remnants of the past cast shadows on his points of view an attractive conversation with no literal honesty Pained at the cause those scars that remain Those lies on your breath smelled of raw sewerage Tears showed every crease where rivers flow my heart has melted in the middle of your road now requiring tow. I remind myself that everything ends badly or comes to a close though my hearts without resolve when your forever is really never when what I really needed was this lever to take your weight off my shoulders ~I haven't stopped growing~


Details | Prose Poetry | |

THROUGH DIFFERENT EYES

THROUGH DIFFERENT EYES:


through different eyes you could see things more clearly
through different eyes you could empathize with the totality
if you could only replace the blinders on your own
seeing things from only where you stand.
not able to digest the views of the other man.
if you could walk in someone else s shoes
if you would be the dog never getting a bone
if you be facing death at every turn
if you could not fight a man at the age of 4
if your past future and present were the same
if you had no safe place in this world to stay

if your color screamed shoot me kill me
mistreat me without shame.
if you knew you could not survive another day.
and you heard some disinterested party callously say.
"Get over it"
Just for once in your secure and selfish life
look twice into another s space and time.
try and look and see with different eyes.
If you have a heart that is too unwilling- or a spirit bound,
this will shorten your sight, and limit your mindless views.
and let you only see that which benefits you as true.

See the the truth that stares you in the face today
I am the victim on which the wicked prey
Tomorrow you may live to take my place.
through different eyes you will see circumstances change.
Things concealed will now appear more real.
"Clear Visions" is the plight to you which
you must appeal.
Unless we see life through brand new eyes,
The sooner we'll see humankind's demise.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

LOST AND FOUND

My world was empty,
And no real joy filled my life.
Lonliness,Depression and Fear were my constant companions.
I sought reliief from my lonliness in dreams and books,
For they were my only friends.

Then, You found me.
You quietly called to me.
You patiently waited for me to finally hear Your voice.
Your gentleness slowly calmed my fears,
And assuaged my emptiness.

Now my world is no longer empty;
For You have filled it with Your love.
Joy fills my soul,
And I no longer seek escape in dreams or fantasy,
For Your love is real.

I hungered, and You fed my spirit.
I thirsted, and You filled my soul.
I feared, and You comforted me.
I was so alone, and You called me Your Own.
I was lost, and now I am found.

I love You.



At times people everywhere will take advantage of you, whether at work, at home or wherever, that happens sometimes. Maybe more often to some than to others. The thing is, PEOPLE will fail you, let you down, disappoint you, That's LIFE.
God won't fail you. God won't let you down. God won't disappoint you. THAT'S GOD, He's there. You just have to look for Him and trust Him.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

11009

11009
CharlaXFabels
HOW ROOD
They took a cart with four wheels scootered by me just to almost hit my foot they 
tried to run between the bus stop and the bench where eye was standing waiting 
for the bus just missing one that left me almost got the dust she flipped at me 
with her middle finger she had to knoe that eye was there she meant to make me 
feel bad so what she said he was not there at the stop yet  this old man found 
and scrounge is better than a gang and take this poem is for FOUND things 
sarcasm is lost inside a deep dark hole I don’t want to take it with me overheard 
and listened to the conversation all anew again in my imprinted memory as I 
pen,  this; ODE to rudeness,  eye have been told there is NO LAW against cell 
phones or decent public conversations Its hard to see he is my poor brother eye 
keep my own needs simple and eye travel light, 
And keep all of Egypt on my back, but some people need the even more security 
a four wheeled   
Shopping –cart can afford them the demonic teachings of the classroom just 
made me realize that eye would leave my education in the great wastebasket of 
the sky eye would learn some other thing eye would leave the classroom without 
thinking never embracing death and the mark of the rejection of the lord the 
millennium mark the 666 mark of the beast called SATAN.
Rood        rud - Show Spelled Pronunciation [rood] Pronunciation Key - Show IPA 
Pronunciation, 
–noun 
1.	a crucifix, esp. a large one at the entrance to the choir or chancel of a 
medieval church, often supported on a rood beam or rood screen. 
2.	a cross as used in crucifixion. 
3.	a unit of length varying locally from 51/2 to 8 yards (5 to 7 m). 
4.	a unit of land measure equal to 40 square rods or 1/4 acre (0.10117 
hectare). 
5.	a unit of 1 square rod (25.29 sq. m). 
6.	Archaic. the cross on which Christ died. 
________________________________________
[Origin: bef. 900; ME; OE rōd pole, crucifix; c. G Rute rod, twig ] 
Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1)
Based on the Random House Unabridged Dictionary, © Random House, Inc. 
2006.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Writers Tail liaT sretirW ehT

The Writers Tail liaT sretirW ehT
by Charles Robert Hice on Wednesday, November 28, 2012 at 12:22pm ·
The Writers Tail
the poor writer can not post a poem anywhere to be recognized himself as a poet unless he writes a longish Devels tail complete with hooks and forks and splitting hoofs and tines in tomes you realize these publishers drink large amounts of alcoholic beverages and seek people to turn down they love to see someone saying homeless poems the frown and then the delete button when will they come to some conclusion that the ether thinking is the faulty mind life is better lived poor and sober how can any one help others to be someone iff they are drunk feet upp on the ottoman ice clinking against the windows and the glasses always half full and half empty ready at any moment to delete all details of any poor peoples emails so you want to post in this magazine afraid knot click delete delete the extra page is missing the long appendage added on is gone they removed all of the appendix index we told you to send an attachment means a file a doc or a document eye tried to attach my soul to my heart but there just is no space is taken up one old woman no pets allowed someday every item that eye write will flash before my eye it will be broadcast on heavens wifi for all the angels there to read each dot and t is crossed there no time lost to read eye will post my items on the heavens wifi for all eternity you stupid people who cant publish me make photostatic copies of my work and glue them to the bottoms of your shoes and stomp them in the dirt you walk back and forth on your thrown rug down on the floor until you cannot see the words and then you toss them into doors threw cracks and howl with glee cause Johnny cannot read me YOU CARACKED MY READING GLASSES BROKE MY TEETH  AND MADE ME GASP FOR BREATH TO BREATHE now little Johnny cannot read. Three shoelaces to make two shoes how many feet does little Johhny use. This tale hath a tail like the INcan Comet of Destruction can you see it in the sky it will be there the day we die. HOT ROCKS FALLING FROM THE SKY the day before the world turned green and died. Here is the cannonical mathmatical equation now. Take the INfinite lights in the sky what they really seem to be and move them to the end of time try to see them falling down. Tumble to the sea my lasting problems will never get ahold of me to hurt me whan they tumble to the sea eye will be set free whan my lasting problems thay tumble to the sea


Details | Prose Poetry | |

116onesix

 116onesix 
116onesix 
 
 
CharlaXFabels 
 
TESTED 
 
 There is a personal testimony and everyone's focus is on the group and on the 
self and not on JESUS where it was supposed to be the reason eye won't go to 
fellowship with rich working Christians meeting at a SUNDAY SUPPER to drive to 
a pizza place where everyone pays something for the food even if they share it the 
cost is still beyond the pocketbook of yew. The added price of fellowship with 
world is loss of spirit functions eye am not suggesting we have meetings in the 
desert with the hedgehogs but there could be a meeting place for all the 
Christians like the fish doors of the early days of meetings they were in and out 
so furtive searching alleyways for soldiers avoiding arrests and fighting and 
bringing lots of food in the bags of fishes and the loaves of breads in pockets of 
the tunaes fishes smile eye could just not resist this in almost every Church 
there is a Kitchen and in some of them is love the people make the soup for the 
homeless and the court appointed prisoners and even important people come. 
Hang a fish upon the door of every kitchen in the nation make a place with tables 
where the poor can come in love do not forget the love the soup is  nice but even 
slabs of raw meat are not enough with hate. 
Eye could not write a word on yesterday the things that eye had wanted to write 
left on the flight of lost ideas and night came again without a thought and then the 
day came back this fable was born and eye decided to try religion again. The 
focus of a lot of people is the congregation the error being life is not a middle 
class house with people making money in a paper plate of life some people 
need a cup of soup just to survive please open up your love first open up your 
hearts then open all them kitchen cupboards up. There is another thing that eye 
must say to all the bible thumpers not yet in the grave what does it matter what 
the date and day of this my own salvation come the day of JESUS was 33 AD the 
date that GOD was saving me. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Culmination of a Dream

   Why did all the lights go out?  There’s not even stars or a moon in the night sky!  I 
have never witnessed a darker night before.  I had the sensation of being blind for 
the first time in my life.  This was total darkness that had enveloped me.
   I had my girlfriend’s hand and tried to hold onto it as much as I could.  She could 
no longer stand or walk.  Somehow, I pulled her along almost effortlessly as if she 
had no mass or weight of her own.  I said to her, “Don’t worry, I have a hold of you 
and I won’t let you go”.  However, she emitted no response to my words.  I had her 
hand in mine, but it was as if she was not with me.  Did the rest of her just vanish 
into nothingness?
   Darkness and silence; what an unsettling combination this was!  My situation and 
surroundings filled me with ambivalence and consternation.  Suddenly, I heard a 
faint and steady humming noise emanating from something distant.  From out of the 
houses on the street came other people dressed in white.  I called out to them, but 
none appeared to hear me or be able to respond.  Each individual seemed to be 
headed in the same direction.  Blindly, they all walked toward what must have been 
the source of the humming sound.  I still had my girlfriend’s hand, but no trace of 
anything else was with me.
   Then I could see the people in front of me just dropping out of sight as if they 
were falling off a cliff.  I tried to turn around and go back the other way, but the 
ones behind me pushed me to go forward.  Any attempt to stand and hold my 
ground was fruitless as these strangers kept pushing me.  I then felt myself falling.  
When I awoke, I found myself on the floor of my bedroom.  My girlfriend was there 
telling me to stop snoring.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

JOURNAL ENTRY

I lacked a lot of sleep these past couple of months.

and abandoned the routine I’ve grown so comfortable with

in this time by myself.

I didn’t realize how much slack was in my learning curve lately,

and I was starting to forget how incredible it is to wake up by

hairs being plucked from my arms.

Miracle workers.

My mother is the only one who saw me lose patience.

2 am on the wood floor, sweating like I just got done fighting.

Spewing out questions to God as fast

one would spit out sour milk.

Ground stomper. Neighbor waker.

A lot of people didn’t really like me talking to them during this time,

just like I didn’t like anybody talking to me

when I’m too busy worrying.

I was a jerk.

My swings get triggered far less than ever before

now that I’m more squared up with stability.

I’ve come a long way from a short fuse.

I sure am glad my brother was there to cover for me

while my sanity took a break, and

in the moments I had to check out

because the tantrums in my own mind got too loud.

My own thoughts, or yours. 

Together or separate. Relative or irrelevant.

It has been a roller coaster school year so far

for more reasons than are appropriate to detail herein.

Thank goodness for the true friends,

and the doors of her aunties house

and ice cream, and mindless television on soccer trips,

and family,

and people looking at me like a role model,

and the act of blowing on my little cousins belly,

and my skateboard, and Mother’s Day,

and having food, and graduations,

and getting lost sometimes,

and poetry slam night, and for Steven Brooks.

and for my elephant.

Really y’all, every last one.

L. Cohen said,

“And draw us near

and bind us tight

all your children here

in their rags of light

in our rags of light

all dressed to kill

and end this night

if it be your will.”


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Tater Sack Annie

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

Written by my grandmother Sandra Burch


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9904 the ending

Narrator Ed.Note: CharlaXAndroidoneseven is now flying to the moon to save 
Supergirl he has to disable the program that sent the disc… 
Stay tuned to find out more about the MOON in the new twilighted zoned series 
on CharlaXFabels@ 


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Basic Rules to Live By

When communication fails, resort to loneliness.
When loneliness fails, resort to communication.
When resorting fails, communicate with your
lonely self and meet your only friend.

When you give up someone else's dream, you begin to live.
When you free yourself from your own dreams, you realize that you've
never lived at all.
Then, when you dream, you'd rather be living.


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Reality

perfection, who would have thought him perfect?
without his words, i know no other truth
reality,
the mother of my existence, you gave birth to twins
euphoria and agony,
oh agony!
reality,
i ask for only a moment to bury myself inside
his soul, his mind, I want to be with it, of it
i need to breathe him, fill my lungs with love,
with life,
why can't I?
REALITY!
oh to cast you back to the depths of hell, demon!
to come into a life, just to taunt...
there is no hatred so pure, as the one i hold for you
for you today,
reality,
you have taken away my heart,
that was your wicked plan all along
was it not?
well,
reality,
without him,  I have nothing left to lose,
no sanity left to keep me afloat
so,
reality,
today you have been defeated
i have always held the key
it's almost tragic, oh
reality,
do you realize you cannot exist
without me?
so say your prayers,
as this war comes to a bloody end
we were both martyrs for the same cause-
reality.


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Used To Be

I used to be a somewhat normal American. Divorced, three kids, and a job. Looking into others souls. Making evaluations. Notes in charts. Different backgrounds, circumstances, degrees of madness, more true than some realities. All had one thing in common. A need for love. Though searched for high and low. Not found in the liquid, shot into arms, or the spirits contained in a bottle. White puffy powder, not snow. Legs uncrossed, inviting love that doesn't last. Now receiving medication, served up in a cup. Disillusioned. In need of a solid love, like a tree they can climb up in. Well rooted and grounded, stable and secure. Fed by living water, to quench their thirst. To help them back up when they fall, or are pushed.
A locked away society cry, and the government doesn't hear, doesn't see. What will become of all these people, or you, or me. Looking to be broken out, from without, by what is only found within. Playing a game of hide and seek, some times no one wins, yet others are found.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

train ride

Riding on the train 
Trying to make it to my destination 
Getting on board with different people 
Feel like a replacement, 
Each stop gives you a sense of direction 
If you miss yours,its a hint of rejection 
Its a blessing 
You get there on time 
You may not have a seat 
But you.dont look behind 
For your not blind 
Or you clearly dont want to see 
That you could be next to someone who are going through misery 
They feel as if life couldnt  get  any more tears to be set free 
Is it me, the only one who notices, 
Have we honestly lost all our focuses 
All we have left is hope and its 
Seem like its slowly fading 
Somedays awaiting 
People on the train asking for help 
We never reach.out a hand because we stuck on self 
Id rather.have wealth in my heart than in my mind 
Id rather make make someone smile anytime 
Talking talking in the spirit 
Helping being a change i can feel it 
Crowds and crowds of people getting off and getting on 
Carrying loads of heavy luggage 
God youve made,them strong 
Youve given them strength 
Their lifes not so drinched 
The strong are able to survive 
they start appreciating you and praising u 
For granting them a,gift of staying,alive 
People so lost in their,eyes 
Tired of trying to make away 
The,passengers go up and down 
The bounds so freely 
To clear their minds 
Know that its fine 
Remember those asking for help 
Whether its a prayer or some change 
What would jesus have done 
In his fathers name 
He wouldnt complain 
He would help 
Turn frowns upside down 
Help you climb those steps 
Help you up the elevator 
Hes here for us now or even later He will never leave our side 
And ive had a great experience of the,train ride 
By: Concetta Hardnett 
     
 
 


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Une Douleur Exquise

I have never seen such a face, not in my most perfect of dreams
To look upon you would be the purest of masochistic pleasures…

I beg of you, be the death of me!

Destroy me!

 

Self-aware, I cannot understand what is behind our paths intertwined
What a cruel mistake fate has made, to bring you into my existence…

Yet, here I am!

Here you are!

 

If it were only your face, had the artist only perfected your portrait
If you were nothing more than a vision, still you’d…

shine in the darkest of nights!
Silence the loudest of sounds!

 

Your mind, your words, every action creates a chaotic stillness inside me
I fear I could lose myself in your flawless existence…

I can only taint it!

I am only poison!

 

I have now seen such a face, often in my most perfect of dreams
I have looked upon you, felt the purest of masochistic pleasures…

You have been the death of me!

Destroyed me!


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Opression

Present, in this bed I lay, and
tonight, they will order me to pray.
Within these four walls that contain my madness,
only god and repentance will absolve me of my sadness,
for I had once dared leave the solitude of my mind.
How can I pray when my hands you bind?
No longer a free being am I, in this world.
I can no longer shout, so how will I be heard?
Yesterday, my spirit and I were defeated, and
tomorrow I fear this will all be repeated.
Haven't you heard a word that I say?
How will I get better, bound, gagged and unable to pray?
Why in your faces, does my agony bring you gladness?
Am I onto a secret, therefore deemed made of badness?
The only thing you have ever inclined,
is that no free thinking man will be left unrefined.
All will be plucked, one by one from the herd,
and if non-compliant, forever be labeled absurd.
Like sinners, and the insane, they will be treated,
and if not changed, they will be deleted.
Well then, a martyr in this life I will now play, for
your disgrace I will not now, I will not ever obey.

-May god have mercy on your souls.


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Mirror

I see two faces
Inside and out
Side by side bickering about

They fight for food
They fight for thought
They fight for everything they haven’t got

I see two faces 
Inside and out
Side by side thinking about


                                                      Soumit Dey


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lady Vice

That smell, there ain' quite nothin' like it.
Not an aroma on gods green earth so intoxicating,
it has taken me on a roller-coaster ride;
through love,
through hate,
heaven and hell,
past and present.
Toxic to every ounce of my being-
yet life without it does not exist, could not exist
-it infuses within me, setting the wheels of my mind
in motion.
It only takes a moment for all I know;
about right,
about wrong,
to dissolve into pure impulse.
There is faux euphoria inside us all.
The memories wash over me,
wave after wave they hit.
I am broken,
drowning amidst the stormy seas of nostalgia,
down the bottom of a bottle.
With every mouthful I sink deeper,
I'm being suffocated by the love of my life tonight,
and,
I'm loving every breathless second.


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I love you

Winds blow
Like music they hang in the air
The melody is sweet
Like a light breeze in a hot day.
Soon the people will be free
Free from human bondage.

Birds sing thier tunes
Foot solders are marching on
Singing songs of liberation.
Soon the trumpets will sound
Of victory from ignoble regimes
That enslave the people like birds in cages.

Butteryflies dance in the air
Free they are at last.
Like the people 
They have broken from cacoons........
Cacoons of tribalism, racism and religious differences
Free they are to go anywhere, everywhere.

Rains fall over the lands
The green shows over the expanses
Reminding me of a land rich and fertile.
Daggers are drawn ready for batlle
To slay corruption and nepotism, name it........
In a land so full of promise.

Lambs and kids play and jump
To their mothers they run to suckle
Mothers nature them in kindness and love.
I am reminded of a motherland
That I attach myself to
I love you mother Africa.


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A Moment of Hope The Invisible Man 30

Sometimes I have the courage to think of the things that made me what I am today,
My memory takes me back to terrible things far away far off into my bitter past,
My mind like a maze of dirty black alleys that smell of waste, loss and disgust,
The losses, the drink ripped away, not happy until it was all gone respect as well.

Invisible thinks of a garden where roses clustered with lilies scent on the breeze,
Bees found stores of honey in the petals of a thousand and one different flowers,
Lovers walked hand in hand along its winding path a beautiful dream of the man,
Bright with the embroidery of nature where children played in new myrtle flowers,

As Invisible thinks of this garden it is neglected but flowers can grow with weeds,
It could put a smile upon his face, a face that had never known any joy recently,
He hopes a gardener can covert this garden get rid of ruined waste, back into Eden,
Tending all the beautiful flowers that spring up with the weeds and smell gladness.

If he helped the gardener in his quest a hand might hold his and guide him through,
Maybe a hand would go around his waist to support him as well as guide his hand,
Dare he wish that the guiding hand and the support would be his angel from heaven,
A dear person to help him clear his garden and walk down the winding path as lovers.

An angel that would smile at him maybe hold his hand and squeeze it so very gently,
Would the angel talk to him and tell him that one day they would be together again,
Her beautiful grace shining warmly as she looks up to him, to her he is her hero,
Not a drunken mess that cannot cope, not a dirty vagrant, but her knight her love.

The tenderness of this beautiful scene in his poisoned mind became real he smiled,
He grinned as she sat down next to him as close a she could get then wriggled closer,
Warmth from her body not only warmed him but gave hope this what he has waited for,
She whispered sweetly she loved him and would be waiting for him and they kissed.

Invisible woke with a start and was she not by his side, was she ever with him,
A dream another heart wrenching let down and how could he have dreamed the dream,
It was so real he still felt the warmth, the impression of her hand holding his,
But it must have been a dream his own mind conspired to deliver the hardest blow.


Lost in a grief so deep, his loneliness complete he talks to Sam his imaginary friend.

These days get worse Sam they really do please help me,
I need to change but I need my drink more what can I do,
But I need to change so desperately Sam can you help?
My world has cracked and I've fallen into the crack,
But what I don't understand Sam that I was once good,
If I had any courage Sam I would be laying in my coffin,
Why does life drag you along with it I don't want to go,
Just a bit of icing on my cake Sam it is freezing cold,
Did you know this is where I was brought up my friend,
Did you know that most of the people that walk past I knew,
Sam! I know many of there people but they don't know me,
Why do they all walk past I wish somebody would help,
Maybe when I have drunk more cider I might feel better Sam,
I can remember being happy but not what being happy is like,

As Invisible sits drinking shoppers give him a wide berth and they look at him with hate.

These people Sam they look at me as if I have hurt them,
The people they are not our sort of people they hate me,
Has the world changed like I have but in opposite ways,
My life is full of sorrow drunkenness and dreams Sam,
Old sorrows wont go away new sorrows should take over,
So we have to face both the old and the new that's bad,
At night I try to close my drunken eyes it all returns,
Sam is that the same as you can you close your eyes,
Can you remember the valleys Sam the ones we used to play,
When we ran about all day Sam in the sun rolling in grass,
The old stream that twisted and turned, it had lost its way,
Floating lolly sticks watching them bounce away on ripples,
Buying bangers in November and throwing them into the water,
What I wouldn't do to go back for just a couple of hours Sam,
Just to feel the innocence and try to bring it back to now,
To enjoy what there is to enjoy and maybe get better Sam,
But that will never happen Sam we are lost on an island,
A well populated island but an island all the same Sam,
People are not like ships they don't bother to rescue people,
They just walk around or just walk away all the nice ones gone,
I remember my school Sam it's now been knocked down and left,
It has all gone, all gone no primroses in spring or bluebells,
Do you remember Sam the bluebells used to nod in the wind,
But they have all been built on, whats the use in talking,
Nothing changes from bad to good Sam remember that, eh Sam,

Still drinking his cider tears well into his eyes his nose runs and begins to quietly
to sob. He sits on the shopping parade seat, shaking as he sobs. His throat has a lump
in it so he stops talking to Sam. Invisible sinks his wet face into his overcoat
hides his misery from the people that walk past he just sat there lost and confused. His
greatest sadness an angel paid a visit to the maze of dirty black alleys that smell of waste,
loss and disgust,


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Artist

My bed of roses, underneath it hides an army of nails.
Crimson spills but remains unseen behind this tattered veil.
Mona Lisa smile, but my buds bloom only in the light of pain,
howling ghosts of the past still haunt me, I fear myself no longer sane.
Concrete exhaustion, it weighs me down and I'm barely able to move,
painting pictures of who I'm not, this mask I'm unable to remove.
I've torn open my ribcage and there's no heart, only purgatory to be seen,
I've sown myself shut, I'll never let you notice I'm anything but pristine.
Trapped in the deepest depths of this hell, I've burned my skin trying to escape,
there are no exit signs any more, only oceans of fire amidst this war-torn landscape.
I am embedded here now, forced to dance forever with only demons and sorrow,
and all I have left to do is paint yet another lie to deceive you tomorrow.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dylan who

we'd drink something that'd give  good boot 
something strong 

he'd tell me about Dylan T 
the boathouse 
the scenery 
how he'd party with the worst of them 
show 'em how it's done 

and maybe 
somewhere between 
the laughs and the re-fills 
it would spiral downward 
to past loves 
ideals 
the occasional awkward stare 
and silence 

Then we'd part ways 
fluff-brained 
wobbly 
and forget what we'd learned 
about each other by the morning.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

92

92
How some students grew up on the Computor? 
and can't function in the real world right click the bus mommy and place it at the 
stop it is taking much too long to come around the horn. form method="post" 
This paragraphic is free to be a space bar for mee and ewe. 
option>Sometimes in my fables there is parts and pieces of mye poems this is 
not yellow journalism or nepotism or even bad form eye can copy and paste and 
then add text eye can translate pictures into banners and banners into love eye 
can relate a page to GOD and find a way to enter clouds formed and someday 
eye will make it rain inside this idiot Computor box and it will fry all the electronic 
components of every Computor in the world then we will all go outside again and 
inhale the fresher air. 
value="Radio" 
Just now eye went to a Bravenet website to make me a new website and its free 
but of course the upgrades would cost me but the free sights is challenging and 
it gave me a code for a welcome type box and it did NOT work as it is in the form 
of a a href not a url. The idea is the webpage would bring me people they would 
sign my little guestbook too bad it does not even relate to the page it won't 
translate at all the code is wrong its backwards to a forum type webpage the url 
is too long. The HEY REF only works on websites the URL IMG thing only works 
on FORUMS how many people have followed links to there destruction. When 
eye got the thing on my FIRST PAGE of HOME the thing took off with me when eye 
clicked it open we went for an internet ride and eye lost the page eye was on NO 
fun. Eye would not want a HOME Computor user to become lost in navigation 
when he was just trying to let me knoe that he had viewed my poems. The thing 
is done the web page that they gave me is very green and nice looking but does 
not do a real function oh well in this Brave New World does anything rally have to 
have a function and so mye gentle reader ewe it seems to mee the eye the poet 
fable maker fabulist like Aesop that eye am just the new proud owner of another 
big white elephant so they will always benefit from instruction of this knowledge 
from someone please open windows as many as yew want and let them learn 
yew some. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

We Can be a Winner only If we Accept Losing

We Can be a Winner only If we Accept Losing
 
When we are going to be a winner in our life?
There are plenty of ways to give that winning feeling for us.
We do not necessarily to be on the first place for being a winner of ourselves.
When we manage to overcome the hurdles in life with a performance improvement also can give us a winning feeling.
If we join a competition with many participants, it is an achievement to finish first and when we have all the talent then it is also possible to get into the best place.
But if we participate in several matches then it will be more difficult to win and getting the first place in every single match.
So we must be mentally prepared on our own in which even we are always able to perform the best but that does not guarantee us a first place.
Therefore we will be classified in a lower position by someone else who get a better result in this match.
So we need to accept several things in life which cause us losing, lets move on to have a better chance to win it next time.
That’s also the same in business, we always want to win and that is normal but “a small mistake can cause a lot of trouble”.
So when we have the misfortune that we are in the losing party at that time, we should accept it with positive thinking.
Do not let ourselves slump with the loss and start to think pessimistic because then the consequences is all our behavior turns into negative approach.
That will reduce our commitment, because when we think that we are only losing will give nerves and frustrations which also reduces our opportunities.
Always stay relaxed if we are losing because only the best will always win and how relaxed we are, the more likely we possess those qualities to be a winner.
The biggest losers also can be the best winner.
 
I wish you a healthy life.
Kindly Regards,
Author Jan Jansen
http://poems.easybranches.com/


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fifty-percent: A Paradox

Power is too devastating a concept for the groundlings to scourge on.

Instead, we thrive on inspiration,
A hope that things could change.

And those luxurious bourgeoisie that roam the outskirts of reality, have no limits,
 But unfortunate for them, they also have no ties to humanity.
Floating above everything that breaths, until they breathe their last
And having only the masquerade of parts they acted out to define their existence.

I would like to leave a footprint that has not my name flashing on a red carpet,
[mostly likely red from blood split henceforth]
But instead a list of people I saw with bleeding hearts.
A story of a homeless man who knew the meaning of all arts, despite his lack to 
make any living off of them, and you could see him everyday making rounds, pushing 
his  rusting grocery carts.
Every ingredient from the sliced finger to the squinting eyes after tasting the 
accidental mistake of salt for sugar, that went into baking that perfect apple pie.
To impress your in-laws.
The picket fence painted by Mr. Cain, and the window washed by Mr. Townsend of 
Lot, who did not drip a drop, or leave a single spot.

Retrospection to the simple question of would you rather?
For I would like to think that money escapes my vision,
Morality ruling all I see.
A true Robin Hood story is sadly a compulsive lie I choose to try and be.
As altruism is as false as any other self-deceiving truth of modernity.
Any gift given with think or not, gives back with a smile or warm thought.
So do not think you are true, because that thought makes that truth, untrue.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Reality at its best

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Impact

The hardest thing in life

Is seperatung love from spite ;

Separating the truth, 

Even when you think it sounds right.


If you don't know your enemy,

there's no way you can fight-

And Sometimes the greatest hints are slight ;

As I recall them- 

Laying down at night .


There Is no remorce in self advocacy, 

And no shame in doubting their accuracy;

The intent of others is incalculable,

And you will feel their wrath;

Life is our hourglass- 

So who cares if your an outcast? 


Make the contrast-

Because their *****is all stagecraft; 

Shoot a counterblast,

Stay steadfast- 

And make damn sure it has an impact. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

come listen to the music

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

LIFE

It is meaningless
But with True meaning
It is unfair
But with Acute fairness
It is sad
But with Boundless joy
It is ugly
But with Divine beauty
It is wicked
But with Plenty good
It is exhaustive
But with Restful peace
It is uneducated
But with Vast knowledge
It is fear
But with Bold courage
It is a lie
But with Sincere truth
It is dead
But it lives
LIFE!!!
It is every contrast
Man can think of
But as clear 
As the spring
Go through it
And allow it
Go through you
Then!
You will find
Fulfilment for your Soul


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Restoration, A Myth

One day at noon, a shadow fell to the earth and announced that he was God's 
chronicler and that he had to report important events to The Master.  

All day he followed people around until by dark he was feeling faint.  

What if instead of me following everyone around, people could just decide what 
was important and make their own reports to God?

He made a petition to see the King of the Universes and humbly told Him the 
plan.

Our Creator God knew all but He listened politely to the shadow.  

I gave you the assignment to see how you would carry it out.  You were diligent to 
the point of exhaustion and then you got creative and started thinking of 
delegating and sharing the workload and making people responsible for their 
own memories.  Good Job!  

You have earned your Brain.

The shadow was ecstatic, a large light bulb was given to him and he shadowed 
everyone who came into his presence.  Soon he was tired again.  He decided to 
rest and let the light bulb be bright at certain times and other times to rest.  This 
was a sign that he had mastered the concept of being restored and revived.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

9Ninety0

 9Ninety0 
9Ninety0 
 
 
CharlaXFabels 
 
 
On SUNDAY 
 
ADAYOFOURLORD 
 
 When judgement come what will you say can you tell the JESUS 
what you done in just one day eye left some fish upon the way then left my bed to 
gather more than eye can eat for eye am blessed my heart is full of love for 
people eye have never met and strangers yell at me from van and make me cuss 
and curse and hate yet the things eye found was blessed a cake a homemade 
cake remember LORD when we ate the cake eye found it in the city park on that 
SUNDAY when the man in the van rolled his window down he yelled screamed 
growled at me so cartoon of a character so rubber legged he would not stop near 
me for eye was mad at THEE for letting evil men get near me they rob me of my 
grace more needed now on SUNDAY as eye sit and feed my face eye will not go 
further with embellishments and lies intended just to sell a story to the men who 
drive the van and bother men with hate for eye found some extra clothing and 
added it to mind for there was no one there in the park today just laying on the 
ground eye passed the beggars sides with full larder laid as eye did not even lay 
it down eye hope they have an empty cup of alcoholic stop eye began this day 
without a fish but now my bags is hard to carry a brand new hooded shirt upon 
my belly my jacket getting heavy my cake and coffee is so nice please KISS mye 
lambea wherever she is at a smile upon her face for eye and love and grace on 
SUNDAY. This is CharlaXFabel number NINTEY. 



Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Holiday Wish to My Super-Soupers

This is to all you lovely folks, who have become such an important part of my life, 
although I'd like to single out a few special folks- Sharon Weimer- everyone's No. 
1 favorite poet and friend, Christy Hardy, John Heck, Ruby Metzger, Farah 
Chamma, Sara Lokken,Catie Lindsey,Laura Mckenzie, Rhoda Galgiani, Patricia 
Adams,Wilfredo Deriquito, Jack Reed,Sue Mason, Sandra Hudson, Carol Brown, 
Karen O'Leary, Vince Suzadail Jr.,Heidie Buys, Elaine George, Teressa Harr-
Pena,Maya Kaabour, Susan Trotiner,Zeina Kasawat,Chaney Short,Michael 
Jordan,Sean Kelly,Peggy Bertrand,Troy Jeremy Nelson,Joseph Spence,Patricia 
Leonitis,Rene Bennet,Erin Conn,Julie Bristow, Josie Whitehead, Brian Strnd, 
Rhea Daniel Dear,Adell Foster, Marycile Beer (what a lovely name!), Patricia 
Contreras, John Loving III, Sandy Schermerhorn,and all the countless others, 
please do not feel slighted if I missed your name...all you Soupers are super.

Happy Holidays!
Your poetry does amaze!
I'll be reading it,
And enjoying it,
Until my final days!

Best regards to people who have become so important in my life, and inspired 
me, amazed me, soothed me, and made me smile.   tom


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Game

Rap is quick, witty and fun.

Poetry is smooth, rhythmic and heartfelt.

Rap and poetry had a love child.

A daughter, named Spoken Word.

She grew to maintain the better characteristics of her parents;

From Rap, she took freestyle, freedom, and grass roots movement.

From Poetry, she took imagery, theme, and voice.

Together, all three, as common forms of expression,

spread to every rapper, poet and storyteller in the world.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Pretentious

Your so pretentious,
The repetition is endless-
And the conversation relentless;
Though my restraint is tremendous.

Trying to keep cool and collected-
But even I, will be affected.

I'm sick and tired of being falsely 
corrected;
I'm uninterested, in the fact that you feel 
offended,
Unprecedented-
Consider this the new me; reinvented.

-Carly Larkin


Details | Prose Poetry | |

love ewe and blue

love ewe and blue 

aer rhyming words true
there is always inflection and poor attitude
limits of knowledge above snobbish refrains
trains run on time only in the movies
movies run on time only in a small town
there is very few movies shown on trains
blue can be an attitude blue can be a heart
love you can be used to start a heart apart from you
as you watch the blue southern train depart
from the blue stunted depot with the board walk floor
the little blue conductor yelling all aboard her
as the train takes the love and makes your attitude blue
soup mix tastes so wordy so blue so true and good
with a doubly heaping helping of a love ewe attitude


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Between Heaven and Hell

What shall I do
What shall I do in the meantime
In between this heaven and this hell
Believing in God more than what the people tell
What shall I do
What shall I do in the meantime
Under the sun
Never ending Corruption
In between this heaven and this hell

Between zero year and the end times
I've bidden my time
Smoke and mirrors
A day further
Time goes on
That  light on the horizon
Is just a mirage
Just the glare off a shiny nickel in the dirt
Nothing but Despair
The entire world 
In a state of dis-repair
We march on further
Into the abyss

A day further
Time goes on 
So what shall I do
What shall I do in the meantime
In between this heaven and this hell
Believing in God more than what the people tell
What shall I do
What shall I do in the meantime
Under the sun
Never ending Corruption
In between this heaven and this hell


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 | |

What Do You Think

What do you think it will take
For people to see eye to eye
Funny how we all seek the same thing
Yet somehow never agree
Funny how we never hear
But expect to be understood
Sad how we react to words
Without ever knowing their why
How we choose to ignore
The hurt and fear
In another’s eyes
While covering up our own
Each struggling to outdo the other
All the while striving
Reaching for the very same thing
Ignoring the way we’re living
We prevent the light from being seen
When the wind blows
It touches us all the same
Just like when it rains
Sunlight touches no one more
There is no discrimination
With heart and hunger pains
A man once tried to imagine
And for a moment
The world sang along
But soon words were forgotten
Lost in each other’s pride
Funny how that works
When we each try to hide
Bury the question deep inside
Until in a quiet moment all alone
Feelings rise again
And quietly we whisper
What do you think it will take my friend
For people 
To see eye to eye


Details | Prose Poetry | |

87

 87 
87 
 
 
CharlaXFabels 
 
StudentLimbo 
 
Fantasy 
 
There is a student living on the SIXTH floor of the lieberry because the computer 
will not let him use it and he can never find a seat even if the place is still half 
empty. He starts near the doorway in the lower deck of the student only area of 
the information commons (yes it's still open to the public but no one ever sits 
there) then he walks up threw the main part where all the students sit and copy 
parts of pictures with some text all meant to be some grand and glorious cosmic 
joke for they seem to be working for the printers ink for the printer just to work just 
to go on printing one more grand and glorious joke. He skips the second floor 
where there is sabios and goes up to the eterminals then he stays a while and 
droll he is thinking he may play a game an actual computor game but no no one 
gets up no one leaves the area he lurches up the stairs now on a dead run 
moving quickly past the remains of the few sabio left that work for searching 
books no internet throwing up on the outdoor rug as he nears the sixth floor stop. 
He lost his mind in 1963 using LDS drugs and playing with his own autonomy he 
leaves this world in agony as he sits upon the roof of the Hayden lieberry he 
looks down at the canopy covering the awning of the entrance and he 
contemplates a jump but he is way too chicken now for lunch he eats his heart. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

to The Public

Not really a poem, but the truth of my being.

To the Public
WLM
Wildncrazy555
June 28, 2011

When I write the words just flow. I get an inspiration or a thought and have to write it down. 
Why, I do not know.  They just flow and all follow a story.  I write my innermost thoughts with 
the deepest passion imaginable and all are TRUE life experiences which have occurred in my life. 
I am diagnosed Severe Bipolar Disorder and disabled and draw SSDI. I no longer have to work 
from over 40 yrs in Maintenance and 2 degrees in Electronics and Electrical maintenance. I do 
draw disability now for over 2 yrs time and depression is a daily bout which I face every day, 
but try to be positive. The medicine I take is for my head and helps with mood swings and 
depression. As to date, I cannot read many of my works as I Bawl like a baby at most of 
them.  I remember when and how I felt when I wrote them.  But all of them follow a story to 
the end.  I cannot recite a single one because once written they are gone, otherwise they eat 
my Brain.  I am crying now as I write this and divulge my deepest thoughts and experiences of 
my life. I feel better now that it is gone from my head folks.  When a situation arises, I just 
know which ones will deserve recognition to be told.  I suffer from arthritis on my left side, my 
hands hurt all the time, and I practice herbal medicine for the pain.  I create my own remedies 
from my herbologist named Daryl Collins here in Okmulgee, he gives me the herbs and I am 
the guinea pig first and foremost for the experience.  Anyone else who suffers from this can 
contact me at trenton6896@yahoo.com.  I am willing to tell you the recipe for my
Creations.  I hope all appreciate this testimony of mine.  All I say is true to fact.
							William Lewis Moore
							June 28, 2011


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Poem from "Legende" by Wieniawski

Winds batter the dusty house,
	can you hear the creaks, moans, the wrinkles?
	his hands,
	glide up and down the worn wood of the aged 	rocking chair

	this place is the essence of antiquity; 
	i feel ill-at-ease

	his dull eyes search
	for something, anything to pull him
	into the past

	the chair groans: once, twice,
	a third time

	i wait, impatient to depart.
	he offers me a bowl of blueberries
	politely, i refuse
….and then, finally he sees it:

        that one, single object which
	lights the spark in his lifeless eyes, and which 	captivates him

	he beings to speak….
	softly at first, then louder, 
	crescendoing in volume

	i can see him reliving his worn-out memories, 	handling each with care, like a prized item
	or an old, trusted friend

	i watch him ramble and reminisce
	about so many things
	the war, the shine of her hair, the laughter of the 	children	

	he even tells me about the blueberry bush he
	planted over her grave

	i listen, and listen
	hours later he is jolted
	out of his reverie…
	the jingling of my cell phone

	i see 
	the sparkle dim
	the laugh lines fade
….he slips away into nothingness
	
	once, twice, a third time
	the rocking chair groans

	i creep away
	down the lane and leave him
	still sitting there

	a solitary figure
	surrounded by ghosts and wisps
	of things that once were
	they swirl around him,
	caressing his wrinkled brow 
	with cool fingers


	at home i open my refrigerator 
	
	and i eat blueberries	
	they stain my clothes, and 
	i try to get them out
	but
	they cannot, and will not leave.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Teenage Love 19: 2010-present

When it comes to young love, it's a beautiful thing for young people from around the world. 
And when it comes to teen boys and teen girls falling in love with each other since the day they 
met, it's like fireworks popping in the sky. Their moms and dads are either happy about it or 
inapproving or whatever. It seems to everybody that most relationships among all teenagers 
might even last to either 72 hours or a lifetime. That's a really long time, but then, if these two 
young lovebirds want to stay together, even until their high school reunions, then that's fine. 
Sometimes love will make young men and/or young women do some silly things or whatever, 
but love doesn't; it's just an emotional feeling for teen boys and teen girls combined. Their 
parents (the moms and the dads) should also know what their lives were like when they were 
teenagers, especially since the day they fell in love with each other. Young love has 
revolutionized the year 2010 and it'll revolutionize the future of all of the would-be teen 
couples. This is starting to get very interesting. It looks like the junior/senior high school years 
will be with all of the wound-be-then teen love birds for the rest of their natural lives. All 
relationships among all young people will not just continue to increase every single day, but no 
matter what the circumstances of young relationships or whaterer, it'll seem that day in and 
day out, all of the young lovers (all teen boys and all teen girls) will always have love for each 
other, and their parents are very happy about it. And if young love continues to grow and grow 
by the time the year 2025 arrives, there's no telling what beautiful thing might happen next.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Love Awaits

Gently,
        the breeze

as the tempest awaits
                        the Divinities and the fates
prophecy says
                        the future instead
and the hearts and the head

feel, think, want
blinded, subjected, daunt

the day
the way
the fey
the may

to quote Thor, "I say thee, nay!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

"I wanna be me!
thee?  we?  to be?  or not?

gently, we move and have our being
in the eye of God above

love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love

gently, Love

between me, and we
you and me
and nothing else

gently, the breeze

as the tempest awaits

the hate.  fate.

gently Love Awaits

( the world is fallen, but still worthy of Gods Love, as are we.  i just read the Rev. Desmond 
Tutu, of Capetown writing about a word, or concept in his culture known as "ubuntu",  which 
is defined as "me, we"
the interelatedness of all poeple, respect for others, our dependance on each other,  for 
even ourselves to be "human", the bad guys need us to teach them love, forgiveness, and 
respect, by showing them.  And then, eventually, however many generations later, they may 
be worthy of it, and their own.  The reference was to Aparteid(?) in South Africa, but has 
meaning in all human relationships.  my bible says "Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord."  I 
can forgive.  and love, or at least be willing to, and have respect for all people who haven't 
effed me over "yet", and then i can forgive, i suppose.  Only if i am "me".  is "ubuntu" 
possible.  i also read a poet on this site write that Jesus was murdered on that cross because 
of FEAR of the power of His love.  never really thought about that before, but God is love, 
and that is the true basis of power, of strength, of society, civilization, family, governments( 
if they're any good), and all the things that make anybody or thing great, and a good idea, 
or enjoyable, or worth our time.  deep thoughts, scary even, but i am not scared of love, or 
Love!  ubuntu wasn't a reference to something dangerous, only respectable, and respecting.  
This is a fallen world.  mostly, all the wrong things are respected, in my humble opinion.

love, love, love, love, love, love, love, and then there's Love!

hate?  poor insipid little thing.  dooooooooooommmmmmmmmmeeeed!

i so try not to.
some people don't make it to easy, though.
ubuntu, ubuntu,ubuntu, ubuntu,ubuntu, ubuntu, ubunutu

i have a dream,

!

with apologies to the Rev, Martin Luther King Jr., i aint a plagerist either!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

ENGLAND

ENGLAND

England is a changing country
Not the place I left  thirty five years ago.
Oh yes, they still have Ann Hathaway’s Cottage,  
And  Buckingham Palace, and even fish-and-chips.
But it’s all dressed up in theme-park clothes, 
And staffed by people speaking only  Serbian,
Or Bengali, who don’t know what or where  Big Ben is.
And don’t care what Big Ben is.    Or where.
The language is almost pure American as spoken 
By  Schwartzenegger  or  Ice  Cube.
The English see  themselves as performing on 
An imagined tv show for the benefit of paying tourists.

When I lived there  English people knew what they stood for,
And today they  will stand for anything.  You could be standing
In Melbourne,  or Akron,  or  London
The music, food, manners, hopes, beliefs are all the same.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Poverty

Psalm 34:19 NLT
The righteous person faces many troubles, but the Lord comes to the rescue each time.



There is a constant suffering in someones life. An affliction is a source of constant suffering. 
It could be a number of things such as poverty, sickness, or anxiety. Many people who suffer 
these afflictions believe that no one understands them, but they are mistaken, God does 
understand. He is always here for us, to show us the way out of bad situations. 

Many people ask the question of why God does not end suffering. God is able to do anything 
you ask of Him. God does not bring the trouble to you, but at times He will give you an 
affliction to experience or a time to walk through it, only for reasons that is olnly known to 
God. I think it is because He uses these reasons to draw you nearer to Him, or to make you 
stronger, or to have you become more stronger and secure in your faith. Trust God and He 
will lead you out of your troubles. He is the light.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hyde.

Plans, morals, perpetual dreams
A whisper in your ear and your heart screams
Eyes that gaze deep
Skin, white as a sheep
I'm forseeing the fall, but I might take the leap

He's the one across the room
The late party guest that couldn't come too soon
He's the one in the coffee shop, sipping some black
A swift runner in the park your eyes try to track
He's the guitar he's playing, the music too
He's the fairytale you read that never came true

Smile, eyes, daring grin
A touch that gets under your skin
Lips that invite
Head like a kite
I would take him home, and I think that I might

He's the one eyeing your chest
The impatient bed-mate that won't let you rest
He's the crawl in your skin
The roofie that made your head spin
He's the one who invented the mind game
The alarm clock at sunrise who forgot your name

A smirk that turns to gritting teeth
A mask concealed underneath
Biting nails
Charm that bails
Calling his next move is like calling heads or tails

He's the one with roses at your door
The commitment he made but isn't sure
He's all you thought you wanted
The harsh denial of bi-polar confronted
He's a sip of sweet tea with a lemon on the side
Not a fairy tale, but a tale of a modern day Jekyll and Hyde 



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Because she still clung to his promises

The girl was legend

All empty eyes & purple painted smiles. Every sweet white inch of her. And everyone knew 
her name

She danced in satin skirts that only moved when she took them off. She was everything 
delicate, everything demure. She was beautiful even when she wasnt

She watched the world with terror filled saucer eyes & the world looked right back with eyes 
that were unmistakably green

It was clear glass, they envied her & she wondered why

She knew they hung up her picture, plastered her to walls&books&frames that made her 
their prisoner. They stared at her when they were alone & forged a kind of intimacy she 
could thrive on

But it was temporary & in the morning she was left to sing her own self to sleep since no one 
cared enough to do it for her

The people that loved her, that glimpsed the real her when she uncovered it, all those people 
left her at the end & she saw what they'd done

They'd led her down the wrong track but they peppered it with glitter & held her just right so 
she was blind to every bit of it

She was the diamond dying in the night, she was the candied rose melting in the morning 
dew. They lured her with promises of love & took her innocence before she even knew it was 
there

She hated them but started to love them almost obsessively. The love hate became another 
prison & she thought she was free because she always got nine seconds of pleasure before 
the sun rose

Back bars catered to her kind & she walked in just to stand there & let their hands go places 
she'd never gone herself. It felt like the past & she convinced herself it was right

One night she walked in, skirt past the legal limit & eyes bright like they used to be. It was a 
shock-making moment, she hadnt looked so sweet in oh so many years & they were afraid 
to touch her

She'd been their girl forever, passed around & used like an old movie that cant be rewound. 
They knew every mark on her body, every scar where they signed her, a kind of "I was 
here" of the human body. They couldnt recognize her. It was the first time she walked out 
alone. Faintly she hoped to be pressed against a wall & killed but it didnt happen

She kept turning around haunted by phantom-feels & ghost-touches. Her body just wanted to 
suffer. It was instinct & who was she to fight it?

Every step was agony. She walked so carefully as though she was afraid of falling in a river 
of her own dark thoughts

But it was hopeless, darkness followed her wherever she went


Details | Prose Poetry | |

what we could be

 this town is a stranger, multiplied
both they and i, completely unknown
this motel is home, while i abide
home, yet i'm out of place, all alone

i find myself missing people that, most times
i do not even like, very much
yet i find comfort in these rhymes
from emotions, come words i can touch

i am a lonely man in Smallville
i carry a stigma, whereever i go
unfamiliarity is a fearsome creature, still
if only, if only, my heart would show

another side i hide within
vulnerable, and all to sensative
i am a man, of both virtue and sin
at odds often in this world i live

i wish life to be splendid
want people to have feeling
never again to do what i did
and spend no more time kneeling

now i know it does not hurt me
to surrender to lifes unchanging surprise
it is a chance to grow, with honesty
putting aside weopons, or disguise

when i meet a new person again
i hope that they are not an opponent
relationships are not just lose, or win
but a way to grow, in only a moment

i'll open up, when opportunity is knocking
express myself, the only way i can
take my chances, before fortune goes walking
i believe that i am, a worthy man

i'll make an effort, to accept what is new
take a minute to notice the unexpected
realize that the stranger is both of us, it's true
that contempt, or caution may be misdirected

there is that time, when i walk by
when you could reach out to me
we could become fast friends, or ally
seeing who, and what we could be

i will not hide, within the throng
or run away to live in solitude
i freely admit, the feeling is strong
i want my life, and my world renewed


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Gift

THE GIFT 		09/15/2011			1526

God is great and God is good
Each of us is a wonderful gift created by our Father’s love
How everything that we need is present and represented 
In all that surrounds us in our lives, He is the one that sent it
Seeing His son hang for our sins with 2 thieves by His side
With His suffering for our trespasses, there was no pride, 
Only a beautiful gift dripping away in blood
God’s tears as He gave us His only begotten Son 

He gave us more than any earthly person ever would
Gifts we don’t appreciate, so often misunderstood
During this journey, the people in our lives are where we see God face to face
Victory after victory, splash after splash of God’s thirst quenching grace
All in the face of the people in our lives who can never be replaced 
From conception to laughter,
In each of our stories, there are unread chapters
With lovers of “the word” sent with their own gift, their own message
Their own interpretation, their own blessing
Helping us to pass each “transgressional” testing,
By blood or by acquaintance, misfortune or circumstance
Those in our lives are here with provisions and life lessons
Preparations and encouragement, by order of God’s suggestion
Neither lonely nor dismayed, unprepared or without truth
We will flourish and continue if the “The Word” is our root

God is great and He provides what is good
The perfected masterpiece of love has been withstood
Friends and family who are God’s chosen ones
Sent to love us unconditionally whether we are considered something or none
With shoulders to lean on, and with an attentive ear
Someone to offer their support as we dry that last tear
With God’s light and His salvation whom shall we fear?
His love is always near… 
A gift neatly wrapped called family and friends


MyFreeCopyright.com Registered & Protected


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The half face

That Saturday, 
Was very much like 
any other Saturday for me, 
wasting myself onto some useless news 
in unusual heat of Delhi at this time of year on my 
own route, sitting in front on the right lane of bus on way to 
college, killing the morning, unlike loosing on the rear far from ‘crowd’ 
I always love to ‘hate’, until a GIRL came from nowhere and sat very next to me. 



I rose my 
Head for less to a 
Second before going onto 
the paper which was all over me, 
just able to see her black coat of fur, a diary 
in her hand, a face similar to a lonely canvas & as lifeless 
as a piece of sand, half long hairs lean back with eyes black before 
bright,’unwillingly’ sad looking lost in this air searching her existence in silence. 








Refraining 
her presence, I 
was calm telling myself 
not to see the tears coming out 
from her heart may be because eyes were 
too dry to feel the grief somewhere hidden on those 
messages of her mobile, breaking her before me, I wanted 
to assure her, to help her but I was no one to her but a ‘complete stranger’. 




She looked 
towards me, when 
I was watching the road 
after my window and went into 
her diary the moment I turned to see her 
face which was only half seen from the place I was 
held , feeling as if the time is dead and things stood still, waiting 
for me to say few words to her or telling her to gather herself far from me. 






She stood 
up with her diary 
and before I could stop 
or let her go, she walked away, 
leaving the bus, the ‘loneliness’ she was in, 
leaving her ‘tears’ on me, walking to something she 
needs to reach when I wanted to run away from her, I wanted 
to run to her but failed in both, I now remembers only ‘THE HALF FACE’. 
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………by VG!! 


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 | |

Christmas is Real



When we consider the losses and grief,
if we arrived at the manger.
Then Christmas is real...

If one nation is relieved by another,
even if we bury our dead.
If we arrive at the manger then
Christmas is real.

If in prayers, we bond with the hurting
world on a global basis.
Erases the fears and arrives at the
manger.
Then Christmas is real.


Christmas is real when each of
mankind reaches out with love
to another.
The reflection of his eyes will
show from the manger.



God Bless all the troops serving this Christmas.
"
350th Mobile Public Affairs Detachment

AR RAMADI, Iraq - "I'll be home for Christmas" are the final words I said to my mother as
I made my final call to her last spring while I was on my way to Iraq. We agreed never to
say "goodbye." I stated a similar claim to my wife. "Goodbye" has a finalization connotation.

"I'll be home" is a statement of confidence.

Five unexpected extensions later and we're still here. It's Christmas in the desert for us.

Military bases during the holidays are loathsome.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Gone are the Gardens

After many years a man returned home to put to rest some very dark demons,
He left as a boy with hatred in his heart and an anger to match that hatred,
A wretched upbringing the spite from his family who hated him was so harsh,
What could a young boy have done to cause this bitterness the answer nothing.

One day very early the door closed behind him the young lad had made a decision,
He decided to leave that awful place and to make his way into the big wide world,
With experiences of his existence he understood nothing could be as bad as now,
With that thought he would not miss nor be missed, off went a lonely little boy.

Making his way it was hard but and he knew that there could be no turning back,
His father a vicious drunk would come home and blame him for his wretched poverty, 
His mother hated the boy she blamed him because he was the cause of this anguish,
His brother wanted him gone as he got scared he would receive the same treatment. 
 
As a man his mind now strong living so long with a monkey on his back he returns,
Walking the streets in town the place has changed a grey place of grim despair,
People he knows walk the same streets they have lines etched deep in their faces,
Etched lines are a calender of life's events of misery hard work and hard times.

Their clothes are clean but shabby why dress up when there is nobody to impress,
Shoulders rounded and heads down their lives are wasted they are nothing people,
Hard men from his youth are beaten and pathetic living on stories of yesterday, 
Years of drunken weekends and family abuse have clouded and poisoned simple minds  

How many years have these so called men drunkenly beat wives and their children,
Count the bruises made by the connubial fist through many many years of misery,
Remember the drops of blood that have flowed since the words 'I do' were said,
How many tears have been collected as trophies since a wedding day so long ago.

When these people were young and full of hope their life was rosy and scented,
There were stores of honey in their minds and a thousand acres of wild flowers,
As lovers they walked hand in hand along paths bright with a finesse of nature,
Look at them now how things have changed their garden is overgrown with weeds.

Once in a fountain of youth happy children chased after each other playing games,
The dancing spray fell on their flushed cheeks as it gushed in the warm sunshine,
It cast its silvery beads all around but now nobody listens to its rippling tunes,
And people have fallen away and crumbled beneath the tooth and finger of neglect.

Now all the flowers are drooping and faded no footprints walk the old path of youth,
They live in a freezing emotional wilderness growing tired of each other love gone,
Their houses are now gloomy and very unhappy it is hard to pretend this is not so,
No signs of any happiness no 'smile and be merry' as they have now stopped trying.

I am glad I returned to my roots where happiness was just a dream hate was reality,
Now I can close the heavy book I am satisfied that my leaving was the right decision,
The people I saw were ruined wasted people whose lives went where the rut took them,
I left and went back to my own life and like a ghost I faded from my own past forever.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Consider us to be dolls

I’ve been made.
Not the way most people are made, with either a fateful mistake or long-lived intent. I
was not born the way people are born, or grown the way they were grown.
I am not real.
This needs saying. You have to understand that this is my reason. I am not a creature of
habit, or education, or coincidence. I am one of design. 
They did not make in a factory or on an assembly line, but that doesn’t matter. I am no
more real than your average toaster. 

I have thoughts. I have words. I have actions. None of them are mine. 

I was made this way. I was made to think how I think, and do what I do, and see how I see. 
	I do not think they meant me to know.
I was not meant to see beyond the veil, to see the strings being pulled. But even so, I
hate who I was meant to hate and love who I was meant to love, and only sometimes do I
confuse the two. I love my maker and hate my maker. I thank the one who gave me life and
curse them for it. 

	It is something strange to live a paradox.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Harsh Reality Vol.II

They Say It ain't what you say but how you say it
so tell me, how do you get across the truth knowing
how people are gonna look at you after the moment
it's spoken. I mean people hate it but love it so 
addictive like 2nd hand smoking me, I'm like a
sponge when it comes to knowledge yeah I'm 
still soaking my man got his life taking away from
him before his time and for me dat was like a wake up call
but I've learned never mind the good times how you gone
react when things hit rock bottom, can you still stand tall
It's hard doing right when every things gone wrong
how you goin catch dat hailmary pass when you outta bounds
life ain't nothin but a choice of who you goin stay loyal to
Your Lord & Savior, or ya homeboys ya know them niggaz
dat always held you down. What's reality for me?
Knowing at the wrong place or wrong time I could leave
this world and my seed would be fatherless, but looking 
out my scope with all the snakes & rats I encountered 
its hard to see who's the real target and yeah I'm 
Holy so I got gifted hands like Ben Carson, and as a black man
I'm only trying to reach what we call freedom and man can't 
live off bread alone so for my son's sake the holy scriptures
I gotta continue to feed him. So if this ain't harsh reality
somebody tell me, whats the fate of another lost soul,
just another statistic to the streets that came from 
an unstable home


Details | Prose Poetry | |

May Never


I may never have really seen you 
but I do not allow this thought to be blue.

Nor I have never watched you from afar
yet this distance is infinity.

Though we have never slain the
satin sheets of lover's passion.

The longing scares my heart
for the here and after.

I may never see a sheepish grin
as romance kindles our fires.

I will always watch for the hearts
desires along the way.

If fate was the one to decide then
for us it may never be...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fading Away from my Past

After many years a man returned home to put to rest some very dark demons,
He left as a boy with hatred in his heart and an anger to match that hatred,
A wretched upbringing the spite from his family who hated him was so harsh,
What could a young boy have done to cause this bitterness the answer nothing.

One day very early the door closed behind him the young lad had made a decision,
He decided to leave that awful place and to make his way into the big wide world,
With experiences of his existence he understood nothing could be as bad as now,
With that thought he would not miss nor be missed, off went a sad lonely little boy.

Making his way it was hard but and he knew that there could be no turning back,
His father a vicious drunk would come home and blame him for his wretched poverty,
His mother hated the boy she blamed him because he was the cause of his fathers anger,
His brother wanted him gone as he got scared he would receive the same treatment.

As a man his mind now strong living so long with a monkey on his back he returns,
Walking the streets in town the place has changed a grey place of grim despair,
People he knows walk the same streets they have lines etched deep in their faces,
Etched lines are a calender of life's events of misery hard work and hard times.

Their clothes are clean but shabby why dress up when there is nobody to impress,
Shoulders rounded and heads down their lives are wasted they are nothing people,
Hard men from his youth are beaten and pathetic living on stories of yesterday,
Years of drunken weekends and family abuse have clouded and poisoned simple minds

When these people were young and full of hope their life was rosy and scented,
There were stores of honey in their minds and a thousand acres of wild flowers,
As lovers they walked hand in hand along paths bright with a finesse of nature,
Look at them now how things have changed their garden is overgrown with weeds.

Once in a fountain of youth happy children chased after each other playing games,
The dancing spray fell on their flushed cheeks as it gushed in the warm sunshine,
It cast its silvery beads all around but now days nobody listens to its rippling tunes,
And people have fallen away and crumbled beneath the tooth and finger of neglect.

Now all the flowers are drooping and faded no footprints walk the old path of youth,
They live in a freezing emotional wilderness growing tired of each other love gone,
Their houses are now gloomy and very unhappy it is hard to pretend this is not so,
No signs of any happiness no 'smile and be merry' as they have now stopped trying.

I am glad I returned to my roots where happiness was just a dream hate was reality,
Now I can close the heavy book I am satisfied that my leaving was the right decision,
The people I saw were ruined wasted people whose lives went where the rut took them,
I left and went back to my own life and like a ghost I faded from my own past forever.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sudden Apparitions In The Night In Rural Somerset

White cars stationary on their roofs blocking rural arteries whilst severing others
Unexpected loss of vertical hold and bodily functions frozen in the failing headlights
Beautiful greenery ablaze, beside the twisted wreckage of man.
A movement shakes away broken glass and the tarmac writhes free of the terrible pictures
Running on the wide screen’s of my mind. Dripping petrol explosions and decapitation,
Gruesome pictures I dreamt up while reality passed the windscreen and
I, 	I sat there screaming inside.

Luminous blue and an echoing voice rouse me from that dangerous moment,
The phone weighs in once again in my hand. I’m rambling, or worse, but I get the message out
And the comfort of my task ends with the depressed red button as
The door clicks open

A familiar face brings mind of the other and I’m out into the cold darkness
Stepping slowly toward a nightmare vision that grew up in the dusk
I find her and for a second we’re back laughing and smiling. Over her shoulder I see
The groupings of people that sprung up from hedgerows, their halogen shadows
Merged with the darkness of the incident. The car is much too white.
Too strange an angle, yet there they sit
Tingling on the verge of the roaring tributary
And casually stemming the tide


Details | Prose Poetry | |

YESTERDAY and TOMORROW

I am not related to tomorrows,
Severed from them
I am  related to my yesterdays
The suffered REPLITIES
Do not trust the future.
Passing through the endless period of grimness,
I have owned them.
Absence of miseries,
Is not the culmination of the anguish.
Painful past, More known, more intimate is acceptable
I am afraid of the future,
The unknown tomorrow.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Antiquity Of Love

They sit together after supper, two forks, two plates -dishes cleared, put away. She, with her tiny spectacles perched a little crooked on her face -  he, with his favorite pipe. Her withered hands lay peacefully in her lap…he reaches out, gently touching them - not speaking any words. 

No words needed between the two of them-having been together for so many years. Memorable words, touching phrases spoken ore’ the years spent together as one. One heart - one mind. Not always a life of sunshine and roses, but devotions never ceased between these two old lovers, these two best friends. 

They held on to one another through each new day, each new tomorrow - catching one another’s loving gaze, uttering a graceful word now and then. Wrinkled faces beautifully bestow them now - yet to him…she’s just as lovely as the day they wed -his lovely bride - his cherished, sweet wife of many years. A smile creeps across his lips in remembering their cherished wedding vows. 

“Will you take this women to be your wife”? He did then, he still does now.

The words sweet and strong - like the fragrance of orchids… everlasting, forever long.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

what we could be

========================================================

what we could be
-----------------

this town is a stranger, multiplied
both they and i, completely unknown
this motel is home, while i abide
home, yet i'm out of place, all alone

i find myself missing people that, most times
i do not even like, very much
yet i find comfort in these rhymes
from emotions, come words i can touch

i am a lonely man in Smallville
i carry a stigma, whereever i go
unfamiliarity is a fearsome creature, still
if only, if only, my heart would show

a feminine side i hide within
vulnerable, and all to sensative
i am a man, of both virtue and sin
at odds often in this world i live

i wish life to be splendid
want people to have feeling
never again to do what i did
and to spend no more time kneeling

now i know it does not hurt me
to surrender to lifes unchanging surprise
it is a chance to grow, with honesty
putting aside weopons, or disguise

when i meet a new person again
i hope that they are not an opponent
relationships are not just lose, or win
but a way to grow, in only a moment

i'll open up, when opportunity is knocking
express myself, the only way i can
take my chances, before fortune goes walking
i believe that i am, a worthy man

i'll make an effort, to accept what is new
take a minute to notice the unexpected
realize that the stranger is both of us, it's true
that contempt, or caution may be misdirected

there is that time, when i walk by
when you could reach out to me
we could become fast friends, or ally
seeing who, and what we could be

i will not hide, within the throng
or run away to live in solitude
i freely admit, the feeling is strong
i want my life, and my world renewed


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Shutting Down Arby's

Tonight, oh what a night it was
Nearly five hours spent
At a fast food restaurant 
Laughing and talking our way through life
Who else but you and I
Could get kicked out
For shutting down Arby’s
So folks could go home
We spoke of life
Of love lost and found
Of sex and dreams
The devil and Holy Ghost
We talked of beliefs
Work and foolish friends
Of places to travel
And goofy things we’ve done
We spoke of fantasies 
And how people are
Of puppies, kittens and relatives
Of future goals and lost hopes
Integrity and the things people think about
We asked why people
Are the way they are
Remembered childhood moments and scary movies
Came to know each other
Just a little bit better
Laughed at our life
While we joked about
Shutting down Arby’s
Such a unique distinction
To have done such a thing
But then again 
It was time well spent
Between a father and daughter
And all I can say
For letting it be so
Is thank you God

NOTE*** May all father’s have such a day. Happy Father’s Day


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Man of the road

Walking slowly along the curb of a footpath next to main road staring at the ground,
Swooping every few seconds to feel the smoked dog ends to see if they are intact, dry,
His shabby greasy clothes make him look like an old scarecrow escaped from the fields,
If dry dog end is over half inch his shaking hands pull out a match box and lights it.

He is walking towards the Salvation building to have a hot cup of tea and whatever else,
His pockets are now full with cigarette ends and the dirt on them he smells of old fags,
His rotten trousers with holes at the knees and split up the backside he is done caring,
Wearing a black tee shirt that he has not changed for years clings onto his filthy back.

Finding real treasure a cigarette that is nearly whole he smiles a dirty line of teeth,
The lines have gaps in them where some have rotted and cracked, literally bit the dust,
Brown lips as he smokes his dog ends to the very end, black scabs where he went too far,
On cooler days his nose drips unattended as he has no rags or no care to wipe it clean.

His shoes are odd and worn down to nearly nothing looking at the soles they have holes,
Along time ago he had underpants but they faded and wore away with time, skids and all,
Go back fifty years he was some mothers son who had high hopes for him in his manhood,
He had friends sometimes did well at school, where did this poor soul go so very wrong.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Cardinal Silence




There is a canary with no song tonight,
a poet with no sight.

A dry ink jar and some memories
guarded by a cardinal silence.

A night star shines in the night
been there for eternity.

Mighty river runs through the land
been tracing footsteps of time.

Sky is blue and sky is red embers
burnig in my head.

Earthquakes shake and bombs
incinerate war torn souls
dream in bloody nightmares.

Cardinal silence whispers of
mankinds fall.

Someone stop the silence
before it is too late.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

just like the flowers

For every person is counted in a 
population
Hated nor loved accepted nor faded
Like a flower in a patch
Dished out in a bunch or one single 
alone
A life be saved symbolizes love
Even if no one intends to
Like a flower gave shows care
Multiple people enjoying the 
beautiful weather with friends or 
alone
Like a flower in the summer
Can shine just as well during night 
or day
A sad loved one passes away
Having a room full of people with 
sympathy or not
Like a flower for sorrow
The forget-me-not handed out for 
love
Left forgotten on the street with 
help or left to die
Like a flower in the winter
Gardens wither away
We rest in peace spending an 
eternity in a wooden cage
Buried or cremeted
Like a flower in a cemetery
What lays on top be with us life to 
death
Just like the flowers


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Life is Cruel

Life is Cruel
WLM
April 6, 2011


Always things to face
Will we ever finish the race
Is it meant for me
Or will it ever be
The continuing strife
Always screwing up my life
It seems that I try and try again
But I never know where to begin
The problems that I face
Daily they put me in my place
 I thought of my friends
Will they be there at the end
I wish for their support
Or will I be treated like a dork
I really need them as such 
If they really knew how much
Not saying that I was wrong
With or without them I will be strong


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Don't Let My History Dye

Don’t Let My History Die

Don’t let my history die
Dear children of tomorrow;
The accomplishments of our peoples’ past
Their heartaches and their sorrows.

Don’t let my history die
The stories of picking cotton with bare hands;
Through the extreme heat and many rainy days
They spent traveling through this land.

Don’t let my history die
The story of how far we as a people have come;
Praying all through those days of slavery
Asking more strength from our God’s Son.

Don’t let my history die
Thinking only of today;
For we never know what tomorrow will bring
Therefore we should always pray.

Don’t let my history die
Thinking thyself wiser than our God
For our people of the hard days past
Paved a better way for you to trod.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

~ Cry of the Muse ~

Of-gentle beginning-and tender song ... ! That we would gratify love in its truest affection. Stand stead fast- uphold it yield to no other-duty ... ! To-have our-souls' so-identified-unified coexisting- exclusively-mid-this ... . To-live, would I die to give the measure of my-soul- just-to-have this ... once ... ! So place me within, make me the-essence of-the-art- lay me down carry me off- as I would be a child lost amid the grandeur- of its promise ... ! Allow this ink to consume us be the genuine eminence, what we reach-for through the humble virtue, heart-of this quill ... ! So all may view soar higher, and even higher still. Be captured, taken within deep- far and away beyond- the bitter part of this world, into the true benignity, flourishing and forever evolving, amid themselves ... ! Yes help me build me up, mold me-yes- come find me ... ! Trick me friend by slight of hand bend me- yes break me down shatter me again, and again truly I care-not ... ! Fill this paper in-its preparedness ... innocence ... verity, hope ... with the sweet passion elation of our souls ... ! Yes carry me before this-vision ... ! Restrain me-not ... . Set our-soul-free ... ! Please ... ? That we may gratify love-uphold it. Yes yield-then ... only-beauty ... ! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Author notes Written to the (Braveheart) theme By: Enya The expression of this poem was written from within the greater depths, of my soul. It was a cry of my muse. The passion beside which I stand and the hope through which I write. The joy we both carry for the other, and peace and faith in each other, in which we abide. Before this writing my muse had taken a vacation. So willing, I am open to suggestion. ~ Thank you for reading this piece of my work ... God bless you ... (The reason that there are Hyphens "so many of them") is because I have a computer that speaks them with a faster and slower and higher and lower pitch of voice, giving a certain kind of ebb-and-flow to the work with a softer more fervent and realistic and consistent tone, when I use the hyphens and other punctuation in the certain places that I do, when in telling it what to do. Allowing it to speak in even a moderate voice if I choose. It sounds very free flowing when I hear it, and I can only hope that you will be able to here it in the same way. Thank you for reading and God bless you ... ~


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Right Thing

Dear me,

When people say something I don't like, I want to get mad, I want to get upset, but then I
tell myself that I have to be the bigger person for things to get better and just take a
deep breath and distribute an apology where needed and whatever other sugarcoated bullshit
that the situation need. And, yes, I make the other person happy. But not me.

Why? Because I believe there should be peace. Wait, no, scratch that (Literally, since I
can scratch it out here).

Why? Because? I WANT there to be peace. I'm the type of person that does not like having
guilt nagging at her skull and eating at her heart. So, what do I do? I do whatever I can
to repair everyone's heart the best I can and, BAM! I got exactly what I wanted.
Well...almost what I wanted; Sometimes it takes a lot to change someone's mind. And, I
guess, that's enough for me.

What I do, my friends, is called "Turning the other cheek". I try to do that now, because
I believe it's the right thing to do. I didn't used to do that, though. I used to yell and
scream and act the worst way. But then, I told myself that things would be much better if
I do what I'm doing now. But sometimes it doesn't always work out in my favor.

Okay, okay, fine. Most of the time it doesn't work out in my favor.

I usually end up getting hurt by "Turning the other cheek". Why? Because I can't say what
I want to say. I can't do what I want, because that would go against "Keeping the peace,"
and what I believe in now, which is just that.

Sometimes people don't see that I'm trying to keep the peace, and they think the worst of
me. Sometimes I end up crying. Sometimes the other people don't care. Sometimes I end up
back where I was in the first place Alone and miserable.

But, I will stick by my new policy because it's the right thing to do. But...really, what
IS the "Right thing to do"? What do you think would be the right thing to do for this kind
of thing? Is there even a right way? A wrong way? An in between way?

Do you think I'm doing the right thing? It doesn't feel like I am. But, I'm too afraid of
losing the people I care about to not do it.

Ah, man. This is quite the predicament that I'm in.

Is there no justice?



Sincerely,

The Confused One Of The Bunch.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Cut a Rug With Daddy

~ Cut a Rug ~ Come On ~ Dance with Daddy ~ (The "As A WRITER I'VE ALWAYS WANTED TO INSPIRE, PUBLISH A BOOK YET TO BE WRITTEN... ." ~ Song sung by good old Bob Dylan - it's called - Things Have Changed ~ ~ "Copy and paste in your browser lets dance... ~" "TURN IT UP!" ~ I wasn't being non reverent I believe... talking about us all dancing with JESUS shaking His gracious booty... . Haven't you ever wanted to see one of your parents cut loose... Why do you think He refers to it in the Bible by calling it "Loosing"... ? Yes I wanna see my Daddy dance... . he's gatta just be the best... ! Yes? Boy you are so precious, so so precious... . Cut a rug and chat with me some more won't you... . I needed help man He gave it to me I cursed Him out vigorously and HE still loved me... . Dear-heart can't you see, sure He's THE BIGGEST BADEST ENTITY IN THE ENTIER LIFE EXISTENCE but I and you and all of us are His Babies, He's gonna dance and teach us all to dance with Him... . Bet He'll shake that booty well, real good too, and offer all of us the same... . His kingdom of freedom with Him... . Yes no disrespect I know people THINK that it is, entirely, disrespectful for Him, but friend David danced for the Lord, people said the same thing you are hun... . But goodness, and Grace and mercy, forgiveness compassion, at-it's-very root, love-He came to save them, share it with us all, yes as He is trying to do with all of us... . Shake the booty hun, Put on a good song and cut a rug with Daddy... . He's pure love... . He'll come and you'll feel Him and be whole having fun with Him, it's all he wants... . Because like with me, and you and everyone, you can't do enough to stop it, the only thing you can is to deny Him of this pleasure He wants to share with you... ? I love you dear-heart! Cut a rug with your Daddy... . It's fun... ! Talk with me any time... . ~ Love ~ James ~ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L9EKqQWPjyoL


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A sound of orient

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Killing Spree

In the worst of times people lose their faith,
spewing words of hate through frustrations,
Turning to crimes of passion,
killing decent individuals for insignificant
reasons, or committig acts of treason,
The presure is not an excuse to set demons loose,
The heinous acts herald that the world is in despair,
and people in power need to show that they care,
Families are being fragmented by senseles acts,
Police Forces are being disseminated by officials'
pacts,
The criminals are roaming free causing all sorts 
of melees,
The downtrodden are running a muck,
Citizens are clingin to survival in the midst of chaos,
Yet, who can they trust?
when their lives have become an open season for
ammunition,
Killing Sprees have gone from a rarity to everyday
occurrences,
The lack of hope has sent a society spiraling into
a deep, dark abyss......



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mans Man

Man’s Man

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Eightynine

 Eightynine 
Eightynine 
 
 
CharlaXFabels 
 
FearsRelived 
 
FearsReleave 
 

Main Entry: relieved Function: adjective Date: 1850: experiencing 
or showing relief especially from anxiety or pent-up emotions 
— re•liev•ed•ly  \-ˈlē-vəd-lē\ adverb Relive One entry found. 
relive 
Main Entry: re•live   
Pronunciation: \(ˌ)rē-ˈliv\ Function: verb 
Date: 1548 intransitive verb 
: to live againtransitive verb: to live over again; especially : to experience 
again in the imagination Releave must be an adjective or mabe just a noun eye 
frown as some of my flock of followers must do at some of the spellings eye 
make of words that have been spelled this way for at least six years. Main Entry: 
reweave  Reweave can be found at Merriam-WebsterUnabridged.com. Reweave 
is the way ELMER GLUEALL says RELEAVE. OH FUDD. WAIT. Releave looks 
just like a real word does it not class. This is the reason we have school idint it 
so fun. Some professors get a case of nerves when something like this typo 
occurs but eye as a Lewis type teacher make inroads of nuances the words 
flowing in the desert places like oasis of stasis static ornaments near Colorado 
Boulder. There was this episode of Mork and Mindy where the EGG went flying 
and OH my it landed hard.  The memory gets better when you stop. Just give it 
some more time to regenerate the Christ is GOD. People are idiots in there 
dealings with other people. Scientific evident escaped the masses when they 
chose to witness to the escaping gases of the sublime whiskey beer farts given 
time they may recover the couches with upholsters from the hang over guns of 
the cowboy trudges. TO: the eviloushonist life is just a reactored accidental 
inflated accident. The worthless people who run the behind the scenes at the 
internet places aer too blame they aer too flaming strang. There is a 
misconcepting theorem that people do what other people think the truth is that 
people do the impossible things that no one does or even thinks of like getting 
up from a day of boredom and going on to see what finding means to see what 
living does. Please do not feel let down or depressed or put upon eye tired to 
make this fabel work without an idea of any kind without a premises without a 
forum places without much hope of even rhyme this thing is done this is quite 
enought for now please stay tuned and keep me ici and come back its 
SATURDAY the next one will be formed on SUNDAY when the author has more 
time. 



Details | Prose Poetry | |

This is Home The Great War

Walking along a maze of muddy walls stepping over rotting young men their boots gone,
Taking the scenes for granted as this is all I know and cannot even remember my home,
The trenched walkways are like the streets I dream about when my eyes close so tight,
Not long ago I dreamed about a house it was warm and there such lovely rich smells.

My garden is muddy, wet the earth turned is fresh and mellow but has many dug outs,
Look closely at my garden and there is beauty in it's blackness but not in the smell,
In tiny enclosed spaces my flowers spring up so very delicate and shimmer in sunlight,
I am looking at a snowdrop it has lifted it's graceful head it is lonely on its own.

In my new world my home is mud, my chair and my bed is made of wet mud it's noisy,
People cry in the dead of night such gut wrenching long sobs I wonder where they are,
Do they think of their mums and dads, or could it be a sweetheart having a great time,
Maybe it's an older man married with children if he ever returns will they know him.

Back in a small corner of my confused mind I see Almond-tree blossom on leafless trees,
There catkins from plants and trees I don't know their names one might have been willow,
In that same corner there are woods with warm banks and green things starting a new life,
One name I remember is the star of Bethlehem in moist meadows but the rest are forgotten.

I am lucky I have always been here my mind knows no home no loved ones nobody nothing,
This is home these people I live with are family and friends they do not last very long'
They disappear for ever new people move in every day most stay away from me at first,
Once they have been here for a few months they talk to me then they are my new friends.

Every day we have to run across the muddy fields and we get shot at I just walk across,
Men around me fall down and are left, all that remains are bones, uniforms and tin hats,
Hands reach for help and plead to their god to help them in this their last few minutes,
Another whistle blows and it is time to walk back and leave my friends sleeping forever.



Details | Prose Poetry | |

2008

In 2008, we hope for world peace and wars to cease.
We will take hold of possibilities and cast away the impossibilities.
Embrace a new future to learn and nurture.
Remember new friends we have made along the way
and keep ever-close old friends to heart.

Let us never forget the losses we suffered 
as individuals or as nations.
Encouraging those whom serve us
protecting our freedom.

Let our words mimic our actions
Let us speak uplifting and 
Inspiring word verses.
Let the thoughts of the poets be
engraved in the inspiration
we set forth let us help
carve new truths for all.



In 2008 a Year of new beginnings.

Have a Happy New Years Soupers and thank you for allowing me to become a part of this
community in 2007.



Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Brand New Between That and That

That gem looks like a brand new,
Yet, she is a noble original and big
I am not declaring  a fact that
Many of us knew about
That madam or madame.
She is madam light.
We all knew that.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Macchiato Man

fresh white snow falling
into his black hair
he sips his caramel coffee
and smiles up into the sky


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Diwali Tree

Magnificent lights adorn the biggest Christmas Tree in the world,

It glows with Indian colours and flair,

Passers-by stop and stare,

Surrounded by ritzy shops and blocks of ice,

Skaters showing their expert talents with all their
might,

A Diwali Tree sure to ascertain International revelrie,

brightens up New York City,

It brings glee to all around,

Its exuberance overflows and astounds,

A beautiful tree that will bring moments of the Holidays
to everyone that sees it,

Whether rich, poor, happy or sad, such a spectacular sight
makes everything seem alright.



Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Atheist

I am reminded of the atheist who died. Or rather was presumably pronounced dead for a 
short period of time, then revived. Upon waking, the atheist announced that he had gone 
down the tunnel of white light, had seen his dead relatives and in fact met God. He must 
have forgotten he didn’t believe in God. Together, perhaps in a city in the clouds or the 
clouded foggy afterlife, God conversed with the atheist. 

A crowd of people had gathered to hear what God had said.

“Did you ask God what the meaning of life was? ” people wanted to know.

“Did you ask God what the one true religion is? ” others wanted to know.

“Calm down! ” the atheist assured them. 

“It just so happens, I asked each of those questions, ” the atheist concluded smugly. 

“And? ” people demanded.

There was a pause as if the atheist was conducting the energy of God.

“God told me the meaning of life is…” the people braced for the answer, “Nothing, ” the 
atheist said after a pause. He was ecstatic. The people were more than a little disheartened. 

“Nothing, you mean there is no meaning to life? ” the people asked.

“Well, that’s one way of putting it, ” the atheist said laughing.

“Or another might mean nothing, as in, you get to make it up as you go along, ” the atheist 
said smiling.

“It’s whatever you want it to be, ” the atheist explained.

The people did not seem to get it.

A few looked suicidal. 

“Well, at least tell us the one true religion, ” the people demanded. 

“Okay, ” the atheist assured them.

There was a pause again as if he was God’s instrument warming up.

“God told me the one true religion is…” the people braced for the answer, “Whichever one is 
best for you, ” the atheist said confidently. 

“You mean there is no true religion? ” the crowd shrieked. 

“What are we going to do? ” the people asked starting to riot. They started to push and shove.

The people got really angry and violent, and they eventually tore the atheist apart. As the 
atheist ascended to heaven he asked God how this could have been avoided. 

God told the atheist, “There is only one way you could have avoided death…When the people 
asked you what God said…you should have stuck to your guns and told them, ‘God…I don’t 
believe in God.’”


Excerpt from: Blind Savior, False Prophet 

Joseph DeMarco  
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

If Wishes Were Horses

I say goodbye a lot—not in an “I’ll see you later” or “until next time” sort of way—but in a “goodbye for good” and “never speak to you again” sort of way. I’ve always been all right with it, accepted it, and embraced it, even. You know, people come and go; they serve their purpose and even though sometimes it’s worth it, they go away. I’m guilty of it myself. Just leave. Get out. Go. Don’t stay. I’ve said goodbye so many times to so many people in so many ways, but you posed a problem that my brain, mind, soul, body can’t escape. I just want to be back inside your arms, your bed, your life, your heart, you. Instead, I ran off, 9 thousand miles away to wake up as you go to bed, to play in a giant sandbox. I do not want to stay here; June cannot come quickly enough. March, April, May—three more months of this living in your tomorrow, you in my yesterday. I miss you. I fear you. I long for you with intensity as deep, as overwhelming, as powerful and dominating as the sky’s infinity. I love you. I want you. I yearn for you in every single way; the tears I’ve bled for you are insurmountable. I wish for Home; I wish for the West. Even greater than my desperation for friends, family, familiar faces, familiar places, is my ache to have you near; if wishes were horses, and if horses had wings, I’d have one to take me there.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

People of Heaven

  People of heaven 
of People each place from which 
they came.
If it is the plains on which they lived, 
then her hair smells of grass
sweet green grass high to the waist
waist high grass.
With her mate, 
he then appears in the grass, 
with his eyes wide open, she is there. 

Flowers and trees gathered beneath
both one for the other
grass under their feet speaking with the 
wind
having no need to speak with another
different some what 
but from awe though they seek, 
to feel hearts that beat gathered from two
leaving one
plus the two with green grass and the breeze. 

Souls that have come, 
did they stay could they not have known 
Having no souls, they came, 
eyes of they softly glowing with life
as the grass there so green
wholly knowing no strife
being
People of heaven 
of People each place from which 
they came.
Did they know
Beyond their knowing.
Eyes softly opened
wholly filled with green bloom
And they rise, as the grass, 
yellow sun in their eyes and they know.
That all eyes are soft and waiting to open. 

Is It Poetry 
 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Untitled

UNTITLED


In a dust try hut
Under a hot red sun
A small child dies, 
Arms like sticks
Legs the same.
A chest with bones
No thicker than a chickens.
Eyes wide with surprise
And the flies.

Not far away
A young man cries
And the gun he carries
Falls away.
His eyes also watch with surprise
As the sun fades into darkness
And the earth turns away.

In a bed,
With clean white sheets
Another man lies,
And listens to the traffic
Dull, down in the street.
He also cries
As he dies
With roses at his feet.
His death is not less
Not a soldier
Nor a starving child.
Just a gay
Who worked the streets.

Pomona February 1988


Details | Prose Poetry | |

March to Broodseinde

Marching together, instep, one by one,
heeding our country's call of duty.
Sixteen of us following the beaten trail,
one traveled by many of our band of brothers.
Three divisions of us are already there,
feeling, seeing, the horror of the front line.
Not sure of the rest of the boys right here,
but I have never seen with my eyes,
the chaos that exists on the front line.
All being seen right now,
are the bodies being brought back,
mangled, bloodied, pieces of our countrymen.
They say two out of three of us boys,
will never make it back home.
I think, on this walk, of my parents.
I am their second boy here,
and the only one that is alive.
Thankfully the youngest is too young,
as I know I maybe another one,
who does not make it. 

Our country, Australia, has been part of this,
since the British Empire declared war,
serving the world from a relentless barrage.
After over three years, there are finally chinks,
we are hearing whispers that the front is weaker,
Have been told not to look into our enemies eyes,
so we do not see their fear,
and so they do not see ours.
This is suppose to make the mission earlier,
to take the lives of boys following orders,
to conquer and take what is ours.

Broodseinde is getting closer,
you can feel the bullets and the screams.
My body is starting to quiver,
has to stop and get ready.
The rain hitting us does not make it easier,
it is so wet and cold.
Corpses we are marching by,
are getting covered with rotten debris.
My eyes are just trying to look forward,
not pay attention to lifeless countrymen,
so I can march out of Broodseinde tomorrow. 

June 11, 2011
© Andrew Scott – Just a Maritime Boy 2011


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Coup D'etat

You’re the stain that scars the silence
Evidently echoed in everyone’s eyes
The whispers articulate the evidence
That results in my elegant demise.

It is the shadow that tailgates the night
Annihilating every anchor I have in sight
The catalyst that induced instant confusion
Right from the start of your epic intrusion

The remains of your anarchy are engraved
Unrepentant steadfast they remain
So I surrender seeking shelter for my shame
Allowing only my suspicions to be displayed

I will watch as they crown and cloak you King
Audience the occasion and applaud your victory
Watch as they bow down as kiss your ring
But I solemnly swear I will not repeat history


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Reality Vol.II

Ya know alot of people talk about
truth, reality, fact, fiction ya know
hypocrites in da church even the 
Apostle Paul witnessed these so called
divisions, but my focus, where I shine my
light today is on marriage. Yeah true
God adores it, thinks highly of it and 
this here is the perfect topic for discussion
yeah it looks easy when ya see it,
two people deeply in love with each other
best friends turned lovers leaving ya parents 
house to live in holy matrimony with each other
Beautiful right?

Aite now hears the grim truth God's always testing
you and the devils always tempting you 
so you try to stay strong. Dedication, honor, 
respect, loyalty forget special occasions candle 
lit dinners whenever to let ya spouse know to 
you they're more than royalty, but life ain't easy
let alone marriage it's far from simple. But question?
How hard is it really thru your years of hurt,
to let that special someone know that your willing
to go that extra mile to make it work. How you
gonna stand when you gotta patiently wait for God
when love hurts and it gets too hard. Thru ya worst 
time would you still let ya spouse climb into ya mental,
God loves a sanctified Christian but the flame in some
marriages is something most couples really need to rekindle.
So tell me whether good or bad times loyal or dishonest 
before you decide to throw in the towel maybe you 
should think long and hard about ya promise.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

SixtyfourF

SixtyfourF
CharlaXFabels
The Underdog
The most disgusting thing of all the hair unkempt can be over looked the smell 
can be ignored but the alcoholic impairment the fumble with the fingers the look 
of concentration the attempts to open a plastix trash bag went beyond the norm 
for me not because eye am better than or some wonderful person than or down 
the nose than but just because it was irksome to watch a man work for fifteen 
minutes on a sack that a sober man could open in one second he was trying to 
untie the knots when any thinking person could just tear the side of bag and then 
be done with bag and have the goods and that the other thing that irks me is just 
what was in the bag it looked like sagging food not nothing worth the time of a 
hungry homeless bag but then the eye has standards for eye am expert 
scrounger. SO do not make the mistake that eye was laughing at the poor man 
try no aue contrails eye was feeling awful sorry for the him making inroads last 
and having a waking dream imagining just what it was in bag when he finally 
gets it untied only to find its garbage after all its trash the food is sagging in the 
bottom of the bag and hungry thow eye am there is still standards to be set. The 
food that eye get is usually more visible than that and eye have some clear idea 
of just what it is that eye am getting into there. see part two 64


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dear Science

I am not amused with your lack of concentration, of all the things you’ve discovered 
there isn’t one that seems to help right now. Sure you’ve made it easier on us, we’ll 
survive, but disease is disease and it shall always arise. What about mending the 
soul, what about Utopia? Whatever happened to the idea that we could be better- 
not just that we could get better things. Better stuff. Not just so we could make 
things more comfortable, and know what was going on. But what happened to this 
idea that everything could be something-
more-
together?

You haven’t solved that, you haven’t grown. It’s the people that have recognised 
prejudice and animosity, it’s the people that have caused and overcame. So where 
are we now? Still in heartbreak. Still in judgment. Still inside this box
that you’ve helped make.
There may be no God, but there is religion. There may be no wrong but there are 
rights. Always wars without reason to fight!

How could you break your promise? How could you leave it so that everyone, could 
feel so alone?... How could we all be so distracted with technology, and ethical 
promise that
We
forgot what
You
were for.

Yeah, we’re all more accessible- but are we more free?

It’s so depressing to think we’re not quite there, and maybe it’s just a stage we’re 
going through, but science, you’re not a person: you’re not a problem. You’re an 
effort we all have to make, you’re mistakes we all have to take. No matter how wise 
the tale may be, sometimes you have to
figure out yourself.

Stuck repeating selfishness. I’m scared that- this is it. This is all it’ll ever be. Stuck in 
a mass of miscommunication constantly, trying to break free.

But that’s selfish itself, so I guess this note is pointless.
But science, be careful.


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


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Time and Work

Ecclesiastes 8:6NCV
There is a right time and a right way for everything.
John 6:27
Do not work for food that spoils, but for food that endures to eternal life.



We wonder sometimes with great worry about what time will bring. We must remember that 
God has given time to us as a gift. God was present at the beginning of time and He will be 
present at the end of time.

We cannot fear for the future because it is God's hand on eternity. It is you who dictates 
your time by the choices you make. We often feel there is not enough hours in the day to 
accomplish our tasks. We often feel there is never any time for ourselves. Remember to ask 
God to help you, and He will show you where and how to find the time.

God will put your mind at ease with time. Time is a gift, and everyday is yours. God wants 
you to live free and without worry of time. He will walk with us every step of the way every 
time.

As all of us on Earth must work to sustain our lives here, we must also remember to work 
for our spiritual well being. Your relationship with God will provide you with the food for your 
spirit. The food for your spirit is a great variety such as wisdom, understanding, joy, peace, 
love, and patience. In this job you have only one boss and that is God. That is a great 
comfort in knowing you have such a great boss as God. This is a perfect side job, working to 
feed your spirit. Start your application process now by praying to God. He will surely hire 
you and your spirit will be fed.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Spoken

Spoken!


Are we meant to walk a tight straight line,
Wouldn’t that be saying to walk like the blind.
How will the hollow be treated in the end,
The two edge sword is being used for family and friend.
A crooked smile is hard to bend right,
The strong is most needy when using their might.
Unconscious wisdom spoken to bring down to the top,
A cliff is extended in sight of the short stop.
Wrongful delight can’t teach a child confusion,
But a picture made by evil hands gives a right way illusion.
Falling short to the tall brings along a silent bed,
Hot air in a head makes no stop air blown on hot makes stop while ahead.
Carving your pumpkin with heart out of chest,
To take a heart out of evil empty chest is best.
Cut off your left if it hinders your right,
Close your eyes to see dark to realize whose light!

Ashley Hogan AH


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Bringing Down The Mob

The mob operates in New York silently,
stealing from people quietly,
Everyone is afraid to make them 
accountable,
so they sit back and allow them
to act dishonorably,
hiding their chicanery,
and functioning through corporations large and small,
Setting up citizens for the ultimate fall,
acquiring fortunes through deceptive practices,
bragging and celebrating about their competencies,
The Mob doesn't have a conscience and never will,
They are resigned to cheating people in order
to satisfy their cheap thrills,
Yet, the underworld knows exactly what they do,
The tarot cards never lie, neither does voodoo.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Oh What Times

Oh what times we live in
Where even the rich and famous
Are reduced to trailer living
All those good times
When money was freely spent
Aren’t quite as free
As they once were
Oh what times we live in
Where war, crime and poverty
Are the kings that seem to reign
Where people devalue themselves
In an attempt to find something gained
Oh what times we live in
Where friend turns against friend
So many ways to love
Are constantly redefined
Where people march the streets
Proudly correcting what is right
Oh what times we live in
Where even Mother Nature
Shows her violent wrath
The winds of change
Seem to be blowing strong
All around curiosity builds
As we all seek to find
Where these winds will blow
Running round in circles
Jumping on each new thought
Raising new questions of answers already bought
Oh what times we live in
Perhaps it’s time we simply
Should pay attention to
A book written so very long ago
That throughout all the many years
Has always stood firm
In its claim to know


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Tell a Friend!

My life is goin on,
Its a roller-coaster, ups and downs,
so many things to tel,
cant tel it to the walls around,
they dont reciprocate,
need a soul, need a person,
Feeling happy? Feeling sad?
Tell a friend...

met you as a stranger,
took a walk to know you better,
and never turned back,
look back on the path we led,
there were no footsteps,
oh i remember, we flew, n dint walk,
Feeling happy? feeling sad?
Tell a friend..

chose different paths,
yet our lives intertwined,
i dint ask for this, yet it came,
wouldnt have wished for the happiness,
if i knew the pain,
the end is near,
Feeling happy, Feeling sad,
have always shared,
hope we meet again, oh friend,
cuz they say world is a small place,
To embrace again, i hope....


Details | Prose Poetry | |

MY BIG NEW FRIEND

Here you are again.
Hi, HELLO, friend.
What is the news ?
Short and like a fuse.
Only love to send.
Death, rape, crime and offend.
What again was your name ?
Just call me - "INSANE".
A wayward brother of CAIN.
Tell me more bliss.
My girlfriend gave me a kiss.
What in the world do you miss ?
*A moment of peace and the snake hiss*

2006 from Scribble Club.com ?????
search: POEWHIT

JESUS SAVES.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Beneath the Barley

Come quick, come quiet, come yet my dear. To the place and days where all you fear, 
will be waiting for you on the moss of the old bark.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Broken Heart

Psalm 147:3  God will heal the brokenhearted and bind up their wounds. 

Allow God to bring sunshine into your world.

God's love is with us at every second of our life.
He is with us even more when our hearts and spirits are broken.
When you have suffered a loss or a great disappointment in life, 
God is there offering His comfort in the darkest hours.
God never breaks promises and He is always with us,
even in darkness.
God's love has no end.
Trust in God to understand your suffering.
God will always bring healing to your heart, mind, and soul.
God will fix your broken heart and all you have to do is let Him.
Opening your heart to God is easy.
He is waiting to comfort you.
He will offer you protection in time of need.
He will bring peace to your soul.
This is what brings happiness to someone's life.
Happiness is not found in material things,
not even money.
Happiness is found through God.
Allow God to dry your tears of rain and bring sunshine to your world and the ones around 
you.


Offering Words of Encouragement
By=Shannon Lynn Farlouis


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L ia Ains cy rinn a elle (Part six)

From my pocket I draw forth my friend

The best of me

I have held her inside this moistened leaf of lily
Since the day I set down booted feet across these desert sands
One lifetime ago I cried a single tear and herein I placed
As it lay dying on the shore of years gone by 
Across the breadth of this leaf
Across the width of this leaf   
To breathe it back
To breathe it back and liven it too
That I might, 
That I would, 
That I have 
Held my friend the best of me in this leaf
Who breathes
Who lives
Who waits
Has waited for me
Though the expanse of blistering sands yawned before me 
All around me for years and . . . twice in life a time lost was I amidst these dunes

I can feel it whispering silently
With its cool tepid breath brushing lightly across my back
My neck with feather light kisses
Creeping over the tips of my short cut hair
Comes the memory I am afraid to see
Still I turn and I look
I do, I do . . . 

I cup my hands before in the shade of me
And I sigh a soft whispering of breath
Across her sleeping body to wake her gently 

So in the dying moonlight 
She wakes
With a fluttering of eyelashes
We meet once more again
The best of me
My friend

And I smile a quiet sort of smile
That echoes the murmur of day
Across her skin glimmering inside the shade

“L’ia Ains cy’rinn a’elle . . .” breathe I


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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


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Fabric Flowers

Slender yellow petals 
Fit perfectly into a fabric bud
All placed neatly on velvet stems
Searching for roots in a grass filler
No sun to reach, they bloom to a white wash ceiling
No scent to inhale, the artificial spritz wore off
Arranged picture perfect 
Never to die but to stand behind museum glass
Fake beauty among the immortal


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Familiarity

When people know you,
They know what to expect,
making allowances for actions
that are inept,
Looking out for their familiar
persona along the way,
The stability and predictability
makes their day,
Fluxes and changes will never rock
their world,
because the people they know have remained
the same,
Regardless of wind, storm or hurricanes.......


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Very Last Poem

When the night wind blows 
And I quietly sit alone 
While the television hums in the background 
Words come to me

Sad words of longing 
And poetry that speaks of tenderness 
I want to remember happier times 
Your smiling face filled with laughter 
That echo from places 
Now so far, far away

Especially the sound of your voice 
That I have dearly loved 
And committed to memory 
A voice you now share with others

So with these words 
In this ungodly morning hour 
I write my last poem 
To you


Details | Prose Poetry | |

SOLD SOULS

Satan comes along one day.
Want some GOLD and much HAY.
Corruption grips the blood like lead.
More gold over bodies of the dead.
Lusts created by man's idle time.
Not knowing God, with many gins & limes.
Filling the heart with misery.
Soon your life is a bent over tree.
All the gold, filtered with crimes.
On, JUDGMENT DAY, away with the slime.

2007 from 8Hop.com
search: POEWHIT

JESUS SAVES



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 | |

Sounds Of My Father

There are those of us who were not blessed with wonderful, or even good 
memories of their father
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Exhausted by another night of sleeplessness
Alone in his home 
Not by choice but by fate
His mind raced ahead
Like a freight train on speed
Dashing franticly 
Down a steep hill

Looking at the clock 
He remembered his father
From long ago 
And the anger he held inside
Especially the morning sounds

Yes... the sounds
There were sounds his father made 
As he prepared to begin his day

Sounds that came
From the bathroom, and shower

Sounds his father made
As he prepared himself 
To begin his workday

Sounds
That as a child 
He learned to fear

For it meant 
His father was awake
And his father 
Was an angry man

Now 
As the fatigued child
Almost sixty 
Tired from lost sleep 
And lost dreams 
Prepared himself for the workday

In the bathroom 
Where he stood
Years after his father
Had passed away
From his own lips
Came the sounds 
Of his father


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CharlaXFabels PARTONE LEADVILLE

 CharlaXFabels 
CharlaXFabels 
 
 
FabelFifty 
 
Poorboy 
 
Eye was fine until the rain came down. The blanket seeped. The CharlaX wept. 
The wonder of a dry warm place replaced with cold wet water on my ankle. The 
blanket caught the water for it's a comforter with many little triangular pockets 
made to simulate a quilt. Eye was trying to have a play a day time dream and 
when eye was almost there it came the water dumped inside the thing and 
cascaded on to foot. CharlaX almost cried again but long interment in the 
camping zone has warned me to be always ready on the go. 
Everything eye have belongs to me no thief am eye eye gather all eye need a dry 
coat and a shoe on foot these things belong to me the socks so dry on toes. 
When eye decide to eat some meat eye twist it up and in it goes the meat is mine 
not taken from a car or from the backseat of the bus unless its left for all of us to 
have the many people leave a mess sometimes and so the CharlaX is a 
scrounge rhymes with clown but the rhythm is so wrong the oversize clothes the 
hats made all of wool and so many they seem like a hive upon the hill when rain 
comes down the head is dry the hands in gloves the feet so dry in layers of 
sockings from the night before the rain eye get my things the old fashioned way 
eye work my hands in every trash can in this city trying to pull jewels and 
diamonds from the dirty bags of tossed decay. Eye ate some onion grass when 
eye was smaller than the now the version of my youth was hungry now and then 
eye placed the grass in mouth and eye did chew and the day came when eye 
finally saw the grass come up and it was not an onion but a flower all the time 
eye had been daintily chewing upon the flowers calling them onion grass its true 
no ewe don't laugh its true ewe so very true. Stop the Press. Leadville is turning 
into Muddville in John Denver Colorado. This just came in over the wire,' 
 DENVER -


Details | Prose Poetry | |

gratitude

Gratitude
--------

desperate madness, and aching sadness once held me tight
now, unexplainable memories, NOT unendurable, that's right
time went on, and beautiful love shone through
between quivering me, and radiant you

now, these eyes see quite a bit clearer
shadows faded as the sun drew nearer
darkness shrank away, and the fog lifted
as objectives grew longer, viewpoints have shifted

the man you once knew, has changed
i was wrapped up in self, blindly deranged
swallowed by fear, and lost within sin
like Jonas, from these depths i'll rise again

cast out, from the beast to the shore
slowly drying, crying, " I will swim no more!"
warmer blood, faster flowing, melts the ice in my veins
i realize where i've been, and discard his chains

set free again, each and every day
to enjoy the world in a new way
not watching for the axe to fall
or adding another brick to the wall

i see people in a new light, through God above
reformed with help and hope, renewed through love
" i thank you all, for being there
because now i know that people care

and my heart swells with gratitude
for each one of the multitude"

stanzas in parentheses are dated, at this point, people suck!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

What A Drive

What a drive it’s been
A mile down the road
How different life looks
From here to there
Half a mile away
I saw people breaking their backs
Trying to find their lives
Where they lay ruined
Yet here there’s laughter
With nothing amiss
As though through innocence
People are blind
To a mile down the road
A different race is being run
Here people empty their pockets
On drink, food and tea
There they empty their houses
Of all they possess
Here we’re involved in the chase
Not for what has been lost
But what might be won
Not to say life doesn’t go on
Just doesn’t seem right
Here it moves fast
While a mile down the road
Nothing will last
Knowing it’s the way of the world
That some will thrive
While others merely survive
Makes acceptance no easier
Of what a drive it’s been
And that how life is viewed
Depends solely upon
From where it’s been seen


Details | Prose Poetry | |

86

 86 
86 
 
 
CharlaXFabels 
 
American Christian 
 
True Story 
 
 A Homeless person is nothing but a distracting sideshow on the sidewalk to 
most people they can not help them ease the misery of the alcoholism or even 
feed them and yet iff ewe ask them are all of you a Christian they would ring 
choruses of resounding yeses in choral verses posted on the internet in three 
part harmonic glee club performances. Eye have seen some bad men posing as 
people. A man walking to the mission once his duffle causing him to shuffle eye 
asked him to let me help him and this is what he told me. He was very angry and 
he was posing as a human. This will now become his story. 
Eye am an American Christian, eye do not need the help you have offered just 
leave my fate to me eye suffer an old war injury the knee cap it is plastic not 
meant to be abused but eye can carry twice as much as you. Even with my bad 
leg eye can get where eye am going if this bothers you then hide and watch my 
passing. He had to be hiding something and this is later to be revealed. The offer 
of help was the Christian in me just reaching out to someone less fortunate and 
needy. The thorns in the people you meet can make the fellowship falter and 
miss and make a man wonder at this life time to come. Now when we had gotten 
where we were going and he had made me belittled all the way the real long day 
was over and he still would not shut up so hear what he now had to say. He said 
you be quiet in that bed or eye will shoot you full of lead and that is when he 
pulled a pistol from his bag and that must be why he has so much trouble with 
the weight it must have weighed a ton there is not another feeling in this world 
my dear and gentle reader as laying in a MISSION bed just waiting for the sound 
of that dropped hammer on the gun he must be the American Christian. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Good People Vs. Bad People

It is difficult to tell the kind of people that exist in this world,
until one takes a closer look at their inner beings
then reality begins to unfurl,
Good people are genuine and always try to help,
They seek to do the right things at all times,
even when warned by their minds,
They live in a modes of positivity and possiblities,
while bad people only know one way to be,
living in hate and negativity,
spending their lives ripping other people apart,
operating covertly in the dark,
never making a difference or being the solution
to a problem,
They find it exhilarating to give another person hell,
The fight between good and bad is always apparent,
when peoples' moral compasses are compromised
with bribes and lies.



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Part Two 64

Eye do not mix my peas and corn in my potatoes as is the wanton some mix fruit 
with meat and it always spoils the taste the fruit is better drank the potatoes left 
alone to get some salt to get some flavor even pepper added later the man was 
clearly well hung over his hazy perceptions ruling waivering muscle bound 
thoughts in clearly peripheral patterns perhaps the hair was bound too tightly in 
the manner of the druggies of the sixties nappy aint the word the word is clearly 
undefined unless it’s twined even eye have never seen twined hair and eye have 
seen a lot of heads a lot of hair there some of it in popcorned rows some of it as 
missing transplanted on the top from toes. The unwashed clothes is next he 
never learned his layers and the eye is never perfect but it goes to show you just 
who it is that cares. Eye still care some about my public image the impression 
that eye make on public eye the looks eye get in the lieberry as eye type this work 
of fabelistical
importance is so nice they see just what it is they wish to see consider the 
source when a man sleeps drunk behind a dumpster on the ground he winds up 
looking much like a hound a dog perhaps the underdog. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lakota ...The Chosen People

Circle of drums beat to hearts joined in 
solemn union with the ways of the past.

The Eagle flies overhead, reminding the
Chosen People of their destiny.

Elders share wisdom with their youth,
filling them with strength to overcome
the burdens, the pale-faces have pressed
upon them.

Sacred Vision Quests show the path
the Great Spirit has designed for them.

The White Buffalo appears, a sign of
the return of the 'greasy grass'

Hope never dies!

The Chosen People live!


*Tribute to all Native North Americans, my friends, my Brothers and Sisters.....



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sixty8Ball

 Sixty8Ball     
 
 
Author Message 
Admin
Admin



Age : 53
Joined : 25 Jun 2007
Posts : 53
Localisation : Tucson

 Subject: Sixty8Ball   Today at 16:17      

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
Sixty8Ball


CharlaXFabels


GangLanders
Street toughs and criminals fighters and haters drug users and drinkers and 
smokers and sniffers. The eye is 53 chronological in years but excessive use of 
beers has not been nice to my nerves and when they move near me like sharks 
in the water of a limning pool eye flinch a little move away but not fear eye never 
fear no one but namme. Eye would not want to hurt the boyz but neither will eye 
let them tower over me in size they would not make a decent meal for wolf or dog 
or coyote packing hounds of misery they play like men when wanting to deliver 
but they mistake the old homeless for a flake and a quiver when the liver is so 
pink and my spine is finally strait and eye stand in disbelief as they step up to the 
plate eye pulled my glove on then smiled they seemed to hesitate then they tried 
again to make me shake
"we told yew we will beat yew up" the eye was laughing now the jigg was up the 
die was cast no time to worry or even much to laugh eye pulled the other glove on 
my right hand and smiled not moving there just waiting time to dance had come 
they tried again even so they wanted me to think that they had heart they walked 
up to the near me as they could try then one he balked the other one stopped 
also when he realized he was alone and facing some sort of crazxy man intent 
on going home they left with tails all tucked away and nothing left on glove no 
meat no bone. Eye could not let it go eye turned and shouted after them "you 
punked". Remember that this man is already 53 years old lame in one foot and 
blind in one eye shorter than tall taller than them able to tie one hand behind my 
eye and walk away from the gangster fight. Eye win. 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Careful Dissemination of Funds

I hear their idle chatter and wish that sound was optional.
A box checked in a menu, a simple click and forget.

The rapid dilation of my pupils brings me back.
Back to hypnotic aisles of temptation and necessity. A selection of the finest they say.

Right there see, on the cardboard, next to charts and columns of calories and strange
numbers I’d sooner forget.
But buy one get one free still gets me every time.

I stare intently at the dancing numbers until the man with the tie moves away.

Glossy pages shine brighter than the fruit racks they mirror,
Competing for importance in my wallet and my life

The magpie wins and the bananas will wait.

Half the magazines hawk five a day in rounded sans serif, bold against the background of a
chef’s haircut.

Maxims of bizarre cosmopolitan playboys and hustlers marked up at 3.99. Landscapes of
polished flesh glow beneath the loving airbrush of the paycheck. Competing for nuts at the
zoo.
A vanity fair for the hollow, shining in the fading light of a red top sunset.
Paraphrased blogs and condensed morsels of crude celebrity nudes for the I-Generation and
the remnants of New Labour and Thatcher’s Britain.

Anglers, caravans and 50 cent, half the demographic, half the price. Count me out.
I finger a few and find no real desire. The Internet offers this bilge up for free. 
They’d all be nude and crapping on each other.
The great silicon toilet of humanity

Past freezers of long dead prisoners, pulped to perfection. Pigs in tubes and flat cow
concoctions.
Pancakes of vomit and fish dishes I won’t ever try. No time for it.
Frankenstein's monster behind glass slides.
Packets of sugar in various disguises. Cereal and chocolate, soft drinks and sauce dips.

Lattes and ladles, loofahs and loaves. The prattle returns through the shelving
I turn around the curries and there is the tie. Talking sport and hard drinking, women and
the weather. Looks me in the eye.

I turn before any interaction and feign interest in something, a scouring pad. Intricately
woven metal coils waste major concentration and he’s gone. Box checked, minimize and move on.

Everything shines in this weird three-quarter light, hypnotic. Confusing. Conscious of the
bottles ahead that I can’t ever touch. Seedy and appealing, puerile and appalling.
Something for everyone. 

And nothing for me.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

CAN I BUY YOU A DRINK

mi  name bill
if you wll
what your name
or is ths just game
anyway
this is not a complain
as my yes blink
CAN I BUY YOU A DRINK


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Good -Bye Sonny

Good -Bye Sonny



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

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

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


McCuen Copyright October 2008


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Ashes of Our Innocence

A song can be heard tonight
Swirling about me beating down my strength
Enfolding the whole of me with thick, terrifying captivation
That chokes a city with the roaring thunder of despair
Of the innocent obliterated in the unforgettable heartbeat
When we died with our friends and families
Slain from the once impossible that shattered our world
Tossed aside the veil of our innocence forever

I can stand no more and I fall
My weary gaze heavenward for I have no answers
With my heart weeping, my soul burning
My mind alive with a desperately hungry vengeance
I scream out all of my searing pain
I scream out with every fibre, every pore of my being!
I scream blinded by this maelstrom of emotion
I scream!
I SCREAM AND I SCREAM . . !

Until my voice runs ragged
Until my anger simmers
And here amid a shattered ruin
I find inside the depths of my soul . . .
That which is fierce in us all

I stand and glare beyond the horizon
Where I know the object of my hatred hides
Feeling safe in his pit of woe
“No,” I seethe
“No,” I burn
“No!” I say through clenched teeth 
“I will not falter!
I will not give up!
I will not give into the swallowing lament of night!
I WILL NOT LET YOU BREAK ME!

I will see you held accountable
I will and I do defy you!!
I DEFY YOU!
And everything you represent!”

I . . .
I like my people, believe in a merciful God
Our Lord forgives and loves us all
And this is the God I believe in . . .
But I am a man, just a man . . .
And I cannot forgive you for this, I will not
God may forgive you
But I do not

I . . .
I hate you!
For the lives you have destroyed!
For the fear in my heart!
I hate you for existing . . .
I hate you because now I cannot help but to hate something

It’s lonely where these towers have fallen
And in this solitude I pick up a stone
I move another stone and then another
For I know not what else to do
I find that this stone is not a part of the rubble
I understand that I am not really clearing debris

I am rebuilding

And this dust covered stone now within my hands
Is the first
In a new foundation of our lives
I see my friends
Doing as I do, lifting one stone after another
We are rebuilding our world
Our ideals

And I whisper to the horizon
“Know this
Today we mourned as people grieving for our loved one
Tonight we mourn as a race having just lost our innocence
Tomorrow we will mourn as people defiled by atrocity one last time
But soon . . .
We will weep and mourn no more
And on that day

We will end terror.”


Details | Prose Poetry | |

FabelFortySix

FabelFortySix
PrinterBlood
CharlaXFabel
A Dragnet RippOFF
DUM de DUM DUM de DUM da DUM
“SGT FrYdaY the man came in the office and eye told him to wait there is that 
right?”
“That's right Bill.” 
“Captain Gannon to you son.”
 “The ink was red?” This was FrYdaY.
“The color was the same for blood. We think it was the Crops who done that.” 
Gannon
 “Crips. Its Crips not crops.” FrYdaY
 “Yeah. Yeah.” Gannon
Frank Smith “it could have been the bloods it's the same thing ain’t it the red ink 
supposed to look like blood see eh???”
Reminds me of the time Tillie my wife she spilled some black ink from the printer 
all over my?”  “What JOE what was that?”
“ just the facts Frank Tillie is a fine woman.”FrYdaY
THE MAN: “They came in two at a time.”
“How’s that” Frank said.
“Let me handle this one Frank,”FrYdaY
“What was that MAN?”
“Two Two at a time you said?”
"Just the facts ma'am"eye meant
OH SIR I’m sorry I’m so used to saying that on my investigations” FrYdaY 
Colored. “How do you knoe that” ma’am
Sorry sir did it again
Sorry” FrYdaY
This is not going so well let’s start over.
Eye am Detective FrYdaY this is my partner Frank Smith.
The Captain is Bill Gannon my old Partner he carries a cannon.
“Really?”  This was the man wide awake now
FrYdaY “Yes really it’s in the trunk of his patrol car the sign on the door says 
LAPD Captain it's a FORD.”
Sometimes we drive down the boulevard and stick the cannon out the windows.
NO one seems to notice us 
The MAN turned White and blanched.
“The printer ink was changed to red the Bloods were out of town we think it was 
the crips go around and round them up” This was Gannon to Frank and Joe.
Frank was talking now “Ain’t they the ones with the blue bandanas and the 
tattoos of the Gay sailors?”
“Yeah Yeah that's it” FrYdaY said.
“The Bloods have red bandanas and tattoos of Gay Marines” Frank almost 
smiled.
Joe smiled it looked like a flat fish going south.
Frank and Bill both stopped at the door and smiled at Joe.
“You coming Joe?” they laughed in unison.
Episode One Printer Blood is over. Come back later for the results the finding of 
the Los Angeles courts. DUM DE DUM DUM.



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Winter is Here

Even in the wintry world the soul of the coming year bursts through the frost,
Amid drifts of snow the long icicles hung down from eaves, fences and ledges,
Walking by day is bracing and delightful hot chestnuts sold from street corners,
Fires burning in metal bins people warming hands stopping for a few minutes.

As the day darkens,lights shine from house windows silhouette through curtains,
Music from piano's songs and good conversation lift hearts in domestic bliss,
Fairy flakes silently and suddenly delight the towns people a sparrow sings,
Whatever the calendar may say feelings do not cross seasons until the first snow.

In the parks and woods see wild scenes of winter life with driving snow storms,
A sombre landscape noiseless passage of a hawk amid the trees, and cutting wind,
Moaning pines, the cold light of day growing colder as the quick darkness falls,
These and other ghastly things that appertain to natures annual winter has come.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Global Warming Goblins

 



 The Global Warming Goblins 
 were gruesome 
sneaky creatures
and there are movies 
featured with these 
creatures
they 'd often spread
gruesome tales 
just to scare
they didn't care
like tales of dying whales...
and dying polar bears...
They'd pretend
to like nature .
They'd pretend 
to like humans
Yet, the gruesome
sneaky goblins
blamed them for the strife
they set out to hurt humans 
for the rest of their life.

Crunch! Gobble! Crunch!

"The earth will melt-they'd shout!"
And many more lies spread about!

"The earth will burn!"
"The  earth won't turn!"      

      Lies, Lies, Lies !

" Serve us or lose your  head!"
"For if you don't, you will dread.!"

 Crunch! Gobble ! Crunch!   


Copyright  McCuen  2008


Details | Prose Poetry | |

UNCLE JOHN

UNCLE    JOHN

Uncle is hardly an adequate description 
For a man who in practically every way 
Acted as my father when I was small.
I have even started to look like him as I get older.
I didn’t appreciate him till long after he was dead.

He was my widowed mother’s  brother,  
Unmarried, who  lived in our house.
Big Jack to his workmates 
In the shipyards on the Tyne
Until one day a three-ton steel plate 
Fell forty feet on to his right leg 
And he lost the leg,
Then he was a wreck. 

But he was a handyman -  and made things at home.
He read widely,   taught himself German, 
Could play harmonica, and knew all about opera.

He taught me  how to  play harmonica,
And to draw sketches of ships, 
And how to  cobble  shoes, 
And  to cut wood properly, 
And to never leave a job half-finished.
He taught me how to be generous with time for others.
And  I learned my sense of humour  from  him.

These are  not the actions of an uncle,  but of a father.

............................................
Written  by     Sydney  Peck


Details | Prose Poetry | |

IS IT REAL

you say this
you throw me a kiss
does love exist
am just on  your list
of fools is that a tool
is that the deal
IS IT REAL


Details | Prose Poetry | |

TwentyFabel6

TwentyFabel6
Mental Telepathy
Apathetic CharlaX
Wood yew like to have a super power like mental telepathy
then rally hear what people think
when they stare at you
and understand just what they think of you?
Like the movie liar liar with Carey? He looked so calm and said you really look 
like the dog today? Or something to that affect? WAIT this brings up another point 
eye need to make. 
fable  
The story that eye make is sometimes loosely based on a real life scenario a 
fate of people just like ewe and eye.
The Animal in my Fabels is of course the Charlax creature and alien from a 
distant star system not attuned to the physical much in the manner of Michael 
Valentine. My Fables are just stories not ever about animals just Fabels notice 
the different spelling the e is transported to mean a different sort of story. Most of 
my fables is suitable for children although they are not written JUST and ONLY 
for the tykes they can be read and digested by most humans online.
If little Johnny Sue is less than FIVE years young than mabe you need to filter all 
the charlax from the line and consider placing the computer a little higher on the 
vine. Most children precocious notwithstanding can move a mouse with easy 
strokes and games build smurffing skills well used in later life. There was a 
science fiction story the naked man stood on the platform and tried to transport 
hisself by kinetic transference of his energy he went to lots of different places 
only he had to get there naked his clothes would not make the jump. Think about 
it like the movies eye suppose they even used it in the Terminator ones. 
Common man and common sense can make the same mistaken thinking try 
this one on for size if someone stares at yew for very long without a word in your 
direction and they are frowning or even sneering it's a good bet the brain has a 
dialogue of one like this one “Oh GOD look at that man he must be homeless he 
looks so bad like unwashed glasses.”


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 | |

PEOPLE

PEOPLE CAN BE FRIENDLY PEOPLE CAN BAD . SOME PEOPLE CAN BE HAPPY AND SOME 
PEOPLE CAN BE SAD .PEOPLE OUR ALL EQUIL AND ALL VERY UNIQUE SOME PEOPLE SPEAK 
DIFFERENTLY AND SOME PEOPLE CANT SPEAK. I LOVE MY PEOPLE DEARLY AND HOW THEY 
SOMETIMES TREAT ME . SO PEOPLE ALWAYS REMEMBER THAT WE MUST NEVER COMPETE. 
MOST PEOPLE CAN SEE CLEARLY AND MOST PEOPLE CAN NOT SEE .BUT WE ARE ALL THE 
SAME REALLY THIGH BROTHER AND ME .SOME PEOPLE ARE DIFFERENT COLOURS AND ALL 
DIFFERENT SIZES BUT WE MUST  MAKE SURE THAT JEALOUSY MUST NEVER DIVIDE US


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ignorance

The winds hands rush through the only standing blades; already scared and weak from the
dazed brains that trampled them. And where do these wandered heads bop up and down too?
gliding through cutting wind that only pierce their skin, but the hallucinogen sounds they
make, crack their minds enough were if you were to peer in, you could view the innocence
that was once made long ago slowly growing more into fear. Why does youth yell bliss of
ignorance? Because all the little children playing gleefully on the hill, don't know under
is decomposing creatures that were once their neighbors dog, uncles cat, or teachers
lonely love bird...Yet laughter escalates with every soft felt earth, beneath those
unscathed chubby toes. But oh no, let there not be a sharp edge of unknown ready to
scalpel that young flesh; see how quickly how innocence bliss; ignorance, for not knowing
the causes of pain; turns into fear. Fear, fear, fear...to be blind could be very
comfortable or very scary. So scary that you turn to something that is not visible to your
family or yourself. Turns you, that the person that gleefully lays next to you on a towel
on a tile floor( because you didn't have enough for the bed quite yet), would rather stand
out and stare to figure more of nothing of the inner loath of self that has collapsed in
view around you. Powerful is ignorance. Ignorance is powerful. Like these heads with empty
minds that tread these hollowed darkened nights, they know that they could be surrounded
by black velvet knives, but ignorance keeps them marching. Not knowing that death could be
a strands reach, keeps them bliss....but also not knowing when will they ever return to
the drunken fathers that they left, the smoking mothers that they warned, the young lover
that they shared or the younger brother that they smacked...gives them fear. The wind will
be the only one to guide 'em, driving them slowly, caressing their hand with soft gusts,
whispering about the day might bring if they trust. And like a lady of the night
disappear; as she walks away in her seductive sway, leave them already paying her without
agreement on their behalf, but once again, they shall band. They shall ignore. And they
shall keep on walking.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

CurrantEvent

 CurrantEvent     
 
 
Author Message 
Admin
Admin



Age : 53
Joined : 25 Jun 2007
Posts : 54
Localisation : Tucson

 Subject: CurrantEvent   Today at 11:13      

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
CurrantEvent



CharlaXFabels


MOONbeans

SixtyNINER

The Origin Of Supergirl 

NASA Today upon the moon the beans was strange the taste was off the war 
mongers shot the southpole and scared the cheph 111 times she wept and 
dropped the beans and things when the rockets plowed into the dust at the pole 
the imagining screen went offline on our pocket computer screens the moon 
went dark and left its orbit there is not much time for me to report it the child is 
safe in her spacecraft she lays the mother and the eye will die with our world but 
the young thing we made will have super powers on earth she has a yellow and 
a red and a blue blanket tucked all around her we hope they use the uniform 
wisely a supergirl now she is smiling and ewe gentle reader have discovered the 
origin of supergirl supergirl came not from krypton but came from the full moon to 
earth
Help her please make it all worth the test///////////????????BOOM the rocket left 
the moon with supergirl inside ED.NOTE charlax to be continued 
 
           
 
 CurrantEvent 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

FabelFifty6parttwo

Real Name: David "Davy" Laramee 
Identity/Class: Normal human 
Occupation: Captain in the Texas Rangers 
  
Enemies: Sherriff 
Known Relatives: None 
Aliases: None 
Base of Operations: Texas, c.1830s 
The Whiskey made the Kidd fighting mad and he swore he would gun the Sherriff 
down 
And then a funny thing began to happen to the Kidd he frowned for at that 
moment when the Sheriff neared to him the wind began to howl and all along the 
watchtower for a mile or more the people howled like Indians always do. Then 
the lightening came out of a clear blue sky and split the tree in two making the 
Sheriff cry and holler and dance on one foot like fat people always do. The Kidd 
tossed both his guns into the dust at the Sherriff's feet. Eye am threw he said 
with yew. The whiskey may have addled him is what the Sherriff always thought 
but the Kidd knew that it was a sign from his Lord the GOD the JESUS up above. 



Details | Prose Poetry | |

To Consider the Alligator

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

CharlaXFabels Part Two MUDDville

Stop the Press. Leadville is turning into Muddville in John Denver Colorado. This 
just came in over the wire,' 
 DENVER - More than 1 billion gallons of contaminated water — enough to fill 
1,500 Olympic-sized swimming pools — is trapped in a tunnel in the mountains 
above the historic town of Leadville and threatening to blow. 
Leadville, which sits at 10,200 feet of elevation and some 100 miles west of 
Denver, rose to national prominence and attracted thousands of people after a 
gold rush in 1859. After the gold ran out, silver became the dominant mining 
industry. Residents of the Ghost Town were advised in a CharlaX Fabel to 
please leave the area alone and on foot each one of you must make his or her 
way into the next state to become CharlaXes neighbors for only One1$ dollar per 
persona eye will instruct each person one at a time WAIT how many people are 
coming? Leadville's 2,700 residents. Bring your dollar to CHARLAX in Arizona at 
Tucson. 
WOW eye can ride SUN TRAN for a while. SMILE ewe. 
It's just part of my Third Million Dollars. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Democracy

If a country’s majority of people are illiterate
Democracy will bear no sweet fruit
Whereas if a country’s most of the people are educated
Democracy will bring peace, harmony and prosperity.

Therefore governments ought to provide education to all citizens
In order to obtain good results of democracy
And if necessary they should go for free education
For the poor people irrespective of sex.

On the other hand education should be up to the mark
And moral education should also be provided
So that a corruption-free society can be established.

Thus democracy is able to set up a welfare state
Within a minimum timeframe.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Rebirth

Landslides, earthquakes, strip mining, deforestation, tornadoes, blizzards,
floods, volcanoes, hurricanes - some of these are man-made intervention -
recipes for disaster.   Our planet is depleted and dying, we must find a new
home, Searching - searching - - - through endless space.  After months we
see it - THERE - in the Milky Way Galaxy - third planet from the sun - virgin
wilderness with vast oceans, tropical forests teeming with life, we can 
colonize here and thrive.  We leave some colonists and move on searching,
but we leave runways in the earth to commemorate our passing and, perhaps
to find our way back again one day if the need arises.  It is hoped these
colonists will learn from the past and honor the new planet so it may shelter
them for aeons to come.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

~ The Great Writers ~ (A Riddle) ~ Part #1 Chap #1

(~) There was a story of a man- who wrote from the heart. With pen in hand he cut- through worldly waters- absent of all, but his faith. (~) He wrote: (~) He-comes-in-the-morning ... ! (~) ~ ~ ~ "I- am the wick He is the light ... . His majesty surrounds all of Him-us- I reach ... ! The chains from my pen bind me ... . Lord help me! Why oh why ... ? Would you die for me ... ? Teach me Lord brake-me Lord, make me Lord again" ... ? Help me know ... ? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~ So it ensued they shunned him: in my busy world I stopped by and read it! it supported me ... . I mean I really studied it in comparison to mine. The lives I see, the history, of what I have felt, believed. That you cannot hear, see it yourselves. I haven't heard, seen of a faith such as this in quite a long time. Where and what people were you doing and where were you at, yourself at your lowest moment, when God came to you if you haven't asked Him yet? This man is weak within because of this "Powerful" I feel with his God in the absence of self. How many of you would spill there "life's''" "guts" on to page? For all like some of you to read? Be "bashed' for this! No your fear has held you fully, kept you from this. Maybe people He, Our God must truly hurt for him, given the conversations. For you, for me. So he is not of the greatest writers, but what an effort. It was written through something greater I feel, for you and me. It was for me a greater expression of faith, yes ... faithfulness in something other than himself I know now he has expressed through his belief. I know given my own fears, doubt, pain, It seems I could have never have expressed what he so plainly now has put to page. Seemingly as you have shown him what he feared. All given still I feel knowing myself in my own life the torture of all this kind of bantering, coldness of words, echoes of his our world. His words he still gave I feel, knowing this, without a thought of himself.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Untitled

Breaking into abandoned psychiactric centers isn’t as fun as it seems. 
Oh, some nights have I had. 

I don’t feel too well. 

I just need to let everything pour out. To come out onto the screen and paper and wall and floor and everywhere I 
can transfer it to. 

Once again I am sitting here alone while my roommates have all gone out to drink. Drink. Drink. College. College. 
Are my children going to be disappointed to hear I wasn’t the party girl? Will they be sad that I don’t have repulsive 
stories of vomiting and one night stands? Why do we do this? 

Is that it? To tell our kids - to create a person - to create a personality - to construct a mask.These masks are not 
colourful or flashy or expensive. These masks are plain white plaster. Whitewashed wisdom. Everyone wears this 
mask. No defining characteristics. You can’t really tell if the person next to you is your closest friend or a complete 
stranger

Here I sit with my eyes closed. This entire time. I did all those things and pushed myself further and further into a 
sedated state that I can hardly remember. 

Suffering is the best thing for an artist. Every artist was an addict. An addict of some sort. Some sort. Some sort of an 
addict. Maybe that’s what I need - maybe that’s why I still do this - maybe that’s why I stay home when everyone isout 
having a “good ol’ college time.” 

Not a recluse. I swear. 

He can’t hear me but I can hear the sludge of sounds though the telephone. I’m sitting up so as not to let my thoughts 
become sluggish although they do such a thing on their own. My entire body has been injected with a cloud. It is 
floating through every extremity, every vein, every cell. I lay limp and wonder how it’s possible to even do this. To 
function at all. 

My stomach feels empty but I know what it holds. The imagine in my mind of my insides housing some bodily fluid 
and a plethora of dissolving pills. Plethora may be an understatement. Dissolving and fizzing and melting and the 
thought of that the thought of that the thought of that... that makes me sick. 

Dissolving in cold stagnant water. Sitting sedating. Satisfied, thouhg? I don’t know how I got here. I’ve been sitting 
here the entire time but what happened between when I first took seat and this very moment.

All of you. Take off your masks.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

ICB (PARTONE)1

ICB
FABLE4TW0
IDENTITY
CharlaXFabels
For all intents and purposes man is now the number of the beast.
Is the Poet yet aware? Did he knoe that men were killing men that wars were 
being fought again whilst he dared to dream even pen love he felt inside for 
them? Words so eloquently displayed for all the students of the English 
Language to critique and study how many poems does the English teacher use? 
in classrooms long abused by drug and alcoholic use the poetic foibles of a 
systematic killing of the individual pursuits. Completed in the Identification 
system is the number of the beast the system is the thing. The use of numbers 
to Identify the people is nothing new the Military in Ancient Worlds numbered 
troops on the Identification Chalk Boards the ICB were set up in the surrounding 
rocks so that the Trolls could change the numbers during the battle they had to 
be quick whitted adding and subtracting the smarter ones soon figured out to 
count the men’s legs and divide by two. The Roman Government even instituted 
the Social Card but the elite only had them they used them to get in the better 
areas of the Roman bathes. The Poet Edgar Allen Poole was made most 
famous by his Raven died it seems after the Cival war was over. Poole, (-----), 
Mr. - PE 16 Nov 1889. Walter Whiteman was next One Time People Search 
Report for Walter Whiteman unfortunate this search wanted money to complete 
the search this Poets death remains uncertain.
Get full name and addresses for all displayed records. Perhaps he is still alive in 
Arizona and continuing his poems in another place and time. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

20FabelSEVEN

20FabelSEVEN
Charlexes Fabels
Gardenor
A Mexican sweat is just a teepee with a fire made hotter and a rock placed where 
you can pour the water on the hot rock to make some steam come up and they 
add some pine to make a smell so sweet to tired alcoholic lidded eye eye did my 
time cold TURKEY and never needed one. One man who works in landscaping 
as the gardenor becomes too busy to notice the other man escaping on the 
sidewalk it is the thief the gardenor is using both his hands in his effort for 
release the other man in shadow land appearance coinciding with the worker 
there just thinking while he is walking hands in pocket just holding on to nothing 
as he sort of Saunders bye? Saunders
For over 60 years Saunders Manufacturing in Readfield, Maine has made top 
quality Form Holders and Clipboards for millions of customers worldwide. Now 
our new Portable Desktop line continues the tradition. Just a coincidence please 
Gentile reader ewe must understand the non commercial usage of this poem 
business. A Random act of kindness to your senses.
Charles (surname) 
Charles is a given name for males, and has its origins in Common Germanic 
where it originally was used to indicate a free man, but not one belonging to the 
nobility.
While eye was typing this the contact email on the link opened up into a brand 
new page and never made connected to the name? please people if you put the 
actual name of your email address then we the customers can copy and then 
past the thing and then you could have read my fable and had a much better day 
oh Mr. and the Mrs. Saunders. The Gardenor may read this missive iff eye bother 
to make the translation into Spanish for the bulk males of the working force is 
Mexicans.
GARDINER: From the Danish for "garden keeper." A noble profession and a vivid 
name. Relatives: Gardener, Gardenor, Gardner, Gardnard, Garden, Gar. 
Namesakes: Erle Stanley Gardner, John Gardner. Eye am just a Charles 
derivative a CHARLAX iff ewe will of some great import a relic not a derelict of 
duty a lover never a fighter a want to be husband to the ewe oh ewe please smile 
as ewe aer reading this one and be sure.
Jealousy is never meant to make us harm but only to make love come back so 
strong to make the other one in love return a little stronger than she was before 
the Jealousy.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Soup Convention?

Anyone interested in getting together at a "Soup Convention"- hopefully with Soup 
executives, for a night of fun and reverie?????


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Miser

The miser sits in a cold back room his door is locked as he counts his dirty money,
His house breathes gloom and his family's unhappy but pretend to laugh and be merry,
These gestures are not the sighs of true delight and behind closed doors they sob,
They sob quietly in their neglected garden as it has been left unattended for so long.

Once grew gay colored flowers and they towered over weeds and they were well tended,
But now it is wrong, there may be smiles on little faces that have never known joy,
There has never, nor will ever signs of true delight on red cheeks a child's right,
No greater mistake by mortal man who dribbled at his wealth while his family starved.

When bolted in his back room with his copper and silver mistresses he is a happy man,
From behind the bolted door are roars of stupid laughter, gutter-ell laughter so lewd,
Cant and hypocrisy make men gaunt and drawn fearing spending a penny for a birthday,
Lust for money paints a mist of sorrow and time ploughs etched lines on foreheads.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Orifice of Creation – Part One



The plight of creation in the end days, posted this under war for there is a spiritual war
present in these days.
Now4ever Midi

Revelation 17:4-6

In meanderings of alcoves of
blood bathed sliming blithe,
demons of hollow sunken mindless
degenerating gruels of flesh scales
and minds filled with rape and destruction,
haunting babbles of abominations.
In the present and ancient
times.


They will bury you in your generations
from creation to damnation the
summit of all worlds surmise.
The temptress allures you
into open graves of slither indigestion
pools of regeneration and manic
skulls of empty thoughts and
meanderings.

Just another collected corpse of the temptress.
Who did not heed the warning of
the current times.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Orifice of Creation – Part Two

Cain and Abel two brothers is the first record of them in a murder notation in the book of
Genesis and death between brothers and nations has continued throughout history.
Genesis-Revelation

Listen generations of the earth,
as Abel’s blood screams for justice
from the deep depths of ancient soil.
With eyes of witnesses in the heavens,
watching the hunt of evil and good.

All will be the victim of the temptress
in that day and Satan shall lead a path
of those that are in her demise.
They buried in the foulest
recess of one’s mind and just another
victim of the temptress.



Choking on the flesh of precious souls
roasted in boiling pools of flaming
waters and the march to the prophet’s
calls, as they even lay dead and robbed
of breath and sacred words as worms crawl
through there flesh as earth claims their
bodies and dust becomes their prize.

So shall be the days of the end.
As told in ancient times to witness here
in modern civilization by telecasted alerts.
The earth moans for new birth a new
Jerusalem.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

But For A Short While

They were with us but for a short while
Their good works now live on in memory to make us smile-
Their joys, their tears, their hopes, their dreams and yes, even their sorrows and 
pains still linger on; they still remain in the portals of the minds of all whose lives 
they have touched-whether little or whether much-

And as they have now gone and left us in body, gone back to dust-
In spirit, it's only but for a short while.

For they who die in the Lord, one day they must:

       At the sound of the trump, as the clouds roll back, meet us in the presence of  
         the Redeemer, Christ, when He returns to gather His Father's children      
          home to the Kingdom of God where we will all prepare together to return 
           to the New Earth from the New  Heaven  to dwell in Eternal Righteousness-
Where joy and peace will be forever and ever, for our eternal home will be 
restored to a place where we can join together to live, worship in praise  to our 
Lord, receiving our crown and  reward of Eternal Life.

So, sleep on sister, brothers, friends, and loved ones; it is but for a short while,   
 for the  Day will come when we shall meet together once again, and all of us will 
be at Rest

In the Presence of God's Glorious Eternal Bliss!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Orifice of Creation- Part Three



A new World will follow in the last day one that will reign in peace.


Thank you for reading my peers and commenting this set of three parts I felt needed to be
posted all in order.

The riders of the Apostolic reign
await the broken seals.
Judgments now poured out
Upon those generations present
in the earth.

He will come the one with white hair
of wool and eyes of blazing fire.
The rider upon the white horse
With a sword of judgment for the
armies of the world.

Man shall not be ready,
Shall not have heed to those
Apostil instructions given
for thousands of years.


Mankind did not see, for their eyes were shut;
they did not hear because they were deaf.
They were Zombies with mindless form,
hollow sunken eyes and speechless,
marching into the lakes of fires.

In the end the white horseman and his
throng of angelic hosts and saints remained.
New Jerusalem dropped down from heaven above.
A new world would reign in peace.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

True Worth

Indeed,Boundless knowledge 
beyond physical wealth
becomes true precious worth


Copyright McCuen 2008


Details | Prose Poetry | |

FabelThirty

 FabelThirty 
FabelThirty 
 
Jim Carrey Email 
Filter Poetry 
 
Poems is Filtered 
Fan Club Is Full 
TOO many Millions 
 
Eye finally got to talk to JIM Carrey today and he told me why he cannot read my 
poetry. He explained it like a man. There is too many fans. There is too many 
emails. “Eye “MISTER Carrey to yew” make filters for my fan club messages the 
porn is the first one.” Okay my gentile reader ewe begin to see now eh? Where 
this one is going? 
JCFC(jimcarreyfanclub)Filter One : NO PORN. 
FILTER TWO: NO POETRY 
FILTER THREE: NO EMAIL 
Oh why oh woe is me eye wanted JIM to read the mee? Oh pain now from 
headache and anxiety Your email address has NOT been verified. Please 
click 'Click to verify' next to your email address below or change your email 
address to a valid one. 
Oh why cannot we just have his home address a house boat eye suppose in 
some woman's swimming place? Eye was a CIA spook before eye got religion 
the love replaces hate so now eye want just to relate to all the STARS in 
Hollywooded glens and pools of swimming fans. Eye had a picture ready to 
download to the fanclub when the email did not come eye lost all hope that HE 
was really there and sure enough it was a band called Carrey Band. This is just 
a fanclub not Jim Carrey. AND that is how this FABEL was just born. 
Jim Carrey Online 
Comprehensive Jim Carrey fan site features news, pictures, movie details, audio 
and video clips, ... Links. Images. Video Clips. Sound Clips. Wallpapers ... 
www.jimcarreyonline.com - 16k - Cached 
Charles Hice 
 Number 23 

Number 23 
     
  Waiting in a line for food. 
Am I in a prison or a diner. 
Drinking soda and now water. 
I am sitting in a recliner, 
wishing that i could get up and 
jump into the sink, 
to drink a pail of water. 
I am just a want too. 
I am full of meat. 
Waiting in a line for food. 
Wanting bread but eating meat. 
A poor man and his daughter. 
I am number twenty three. 

Charles Hice 
http://www.newline.com/properties/number23the.html 
Actual Trailer to the movie this is my tribute JIM Carrey please email me. 
IMPORTANT: Please click on the link below to verify this email address: 
OH forever JOY the RIDDLER is mine at last. 
Charles Hice 




Details | Prose Poetry | |

PART TWO OF 30 Fabel

FABELTHIRTY part two

Thank you for verifying your email address on Bebo. 

Add more friends by copying and pasting the wording below and send to your 
friends and family: Oh woe tis only mee the FAN from Desert Landed Shippe. 
Your account is currently inactive, the administrator of the board will 
need to activate it before you can log in. You will receive another 
email when this has occurred. Oh JOYOUS BLISS. 
JIM Carrey is almost mine again.? No do not go there eye meant in a FAN CLUB 
NORMAL way? 
Do not SHOOT Bruce Wayne or He won't LEARN nothin'. 

Quote the RIDDLER make a play try to find a fan club today but realize important 
people pay lawyers and secretaries plenty beans to filter out messages like 
these. No PORN eye understand but POEMS listen to the band and emails need 
to be on hand for all celebrites. Just now eye found out that eye did not make 
another poem with the CARREY as the central focus but dear ewe reader will 
agree the Number 23 was made BEFORE the movie. 
What DE JE VUE for ewe. 



Details | Prose Poetry | |

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

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.