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Prose Poetry Philosophy Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Philosophy

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

LIFE

I asked to my father
Baba, What is life ?
He politely said to me, " Life is Duty . "

I asked to my mother
Maa, What is life ?
She said to me with smile, " Life is Responsibility . "

I asked to my teacher
Sir, What is life ?
He said to me with love, " Life is Education . "

I asked to my spiritual master
Gurujee, What is life ?
He said to me with confidence, " Life is Devotion . "

Today my son who reads in class nine
Asked me
Babai, What is life ?
I have said to him, " Dear, You are my life . "

SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA


( Father means BABA, BABAI and Mother means MAA in Bengali language .  Gurujjee means spiritual master in Indian society ) 

Copyright © Sandip Goswami | Year Posted 2014

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REINCARNATION THINKING

REINCARNATION THINKING?

Life is like a coloring book
with few or many pages
filled with complex 
outlined images.

We are given a box of crayons
and are asked to color in the 
background and spaces of the images

Sub-titles are allowed.

When the coloring book is finished
we are given a new one to complete.

C.A.K. 12-6-2012


REINCARNATION THINKING 2 -SOUL SEARCHING

Was I once before or never
Don’t know how or even whether

I was a firefly, a bird of prey 
a centipede, a fish fillet?

A baseball fan to keep the score
a mockingbird, a carnivore?

A blossom in the midst of spring
a sign of what the day might bring.

A germ grown in a Petri dish
a chicken bone an unmade wish

All things and species could I be,
even remnants of a tree.

Of all of these,  I leave this post,
I am for now what I am most.

CAK 7-23-2012



MORE QUESTIONS ON RE-INCARNATION

As 'core' beliefs thicken so, 
does it leave us room to grow?
As aging souls say we must, 
complete the cycle which was thrust
upon our bucolic living place 
turned upside down in whorling space
searching for a redemptive life.

But for you, dearest one, do you not remember 
before you arrived, you took this bucking horse of soul, 
tamed it, labeled it and proclaimed it. 
To become what you needed in order
that your ride be contained and controlled. 
It's name is 'balance' and it keeps you level in the saddle 
so you don't fall off. 

10-3-2012


REINCARNATION THINKING 3 -

If, we are on a soul journey,
then what must that soul become?

A better soul? A wiser soul?
A sad soul? A learned soul?
Until one reaches the end of time,

There are so many lives to live out
to fully experience all aspects of this world.
Animals, plants - more souls searching?

One can speculate, but from my perspective
none of it makes sense.

CAK 4-03-2012


REINCARNATION ENDING

Was the Phoenix reincarnated?
Or was its embers reignited?  
Perhaps before a lowly worm or soldier bee 
or brown turned leaf upon a tree? 
A  seahorse, a shark, which fish shall I be?  
In fisherman's net to be eaten by me?  
And when the cycle is complete 
and x equals x on our balance sheet.
Can we then rest in a celestial lair 
with memories gone and unaware
of trials by all things forgotten?
If choose I must or chosen by me,  
I'll remain in the stars and just wait to see.

6-2-2012

Copyright © Allan Koven | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Red Hot Snapper


When a relationship is based
on a red hot snapper
with a knockout wrapper
that builds a fire in your jeans.

This kind of marriage is for
the movie screen.

In time the snapper cools down.
The knockout wrapper isn't
quite the knockout it used to be
and the fire in your jeans is on it's way out.

This is now the beginning of the end.
You don't really know each other
your not even friends
and now the fights begin.

If you had picked your wife for life
with the head on your shoulders
instead of the one between your knees,
you might have found a wife for life
instead of a high maintenance money pit
that you can't please.








Copyright © Terry L. Allen | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

FOR THE SONS OF MEN

Segun my child! My son!
Soon, the cock will crow at dawn
And the east will showcase the sun
Soon, you will leave my home, 
To found your own
With words of wisdom, you won’t be alone.
Like a mini-skirt, advice is too short
But it covers the body’s vital lot.

Hear me.
Your brother is not your friend,
He is another you, but independent
So your love for one another, allow no dent
For the sons of men…
Every journey far destination brings
Nature presents a transport means
The snow has the snow dogs
The desert has the camels
The long distant road has the horse

Even technology came to aid us
For the road, we have the cars
For the seas and ocean, the ship
For the rail, the train
The sky has the airplane
All, to lead us through our destiny lane

That is it with man’s life and the battle in it
For whatever fate comes to us, so be it
As the future hungers like a wild beast
Likewise on it, your eyes be firmly fixed
Take a deep breath my child, and learn this
Every master was once an apprentice
Be it the prophets or the dentists

Fate is most times very unfair
Be not defeated by the things you saw
For life is more like war
And all is fair in love and war.
But whatever life’s battle you face
Nature will surely with remedy surface.

When you fall or fail
Don’t ceaselessly wail
Inhale…count to ten, and then exhale
Turn stumbling block to stepping stone,
So the builders reject, will be chief cornerstone

Two Demi-gods are on man’s destiny entrance
Their names, Consistency and Perseverance
Segun, to them, you must bow
No matter what, no matter how
On their feet, bring your head down

I know my son, I know,
That adventure is the blood of the youths
But by rushing the moment, the petals are bruised
So, calmly assimilate my child, calm study
For so, Apostle Paul admonished Timothy
Never be the first to hate
But to forgive, be the first and be in haste

My son, all humans can’t love you
If they all do, then they want to kill you
Likewise, all humans can’t hate you
If they all do, then they want the best for you
What people suffer to get, yet you so easily get
That you must never despise
For it is your miracle in disguise

For the sons of men,
Me, myself and I comes first
Don’t follow that context
If you find the opportunity to rule
My son, take the alternative to lead
For where rulers doom, leaders bloom

When fortune knocks on your door,
Be quick to offer him a sit
Use your wisdom and condor
To keep him and give him no exit

Copyright © Isioma Esemene | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Number Eight

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright © CJ Krieger | Year Posted 2011

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.

Copyright © Jacqueline R. Mendoza | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Tee Shot

Address.
Stance, grip,
settle in, shake out,
place the club head,
sweet spot kissing
the doomed ball,
a ripe plum
against the steel.
Eternity.
Doubt about 
the Oppenheimer reallocation.
Eye on the ball, 
a visual feast,
view the flag,
take a picture of it
with the mind,
eye on the ball.
A breeze, a frown,
left foot forward
a millimeter,
club head opened 
four thousands of an inch,
the reckoning 
of terrible variables.
Imagine the Masters:
“Mr Scott Davis of Fort Wayne Indiana,
you are away.”
Address.
Perfection, shake out,
wiggling hips,
exhale, the paroxysm
of tension, mind and body
crystallized.
The flag appears
as a scrapbook photograph,
the drum roll crescendo
of concentration stops.
Silence.
The Oppenheimer reallocation
was a good move.
It's time.
The back swing,
a slow pendulum
of machine precision
rises to the twisted apex 
and hovers.
The sword of Damocles,
falls slowly to release.
Scott gives it his all.
Eye off the ball.
The Oppenheimer reallocation.
Ping!
Follow through.
Angst.
There it is!
The ball is shooting straight
down the fairway
as an artillery round,
climbing to trajectory,
rising, hanging, hanging
beyond gravity,
falling, falling, dropping.
Thud. 
Direct hit on the green,
rolling, rolling, stopping
ten feet from the pin. 
“Yes!”
Could be better but
birdie is possible –
very possible.
Scott lifts the heavy golf bag
and soldiers down the fairway. 
The sun could not
be brighter,
the sky more blue,
the grass more green,
the birds more musical.
Scott is hopeful
of birdie
on Par 3.


Copyright © Peter Kautsky | Year Posted 2014

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Reason

Reason: It saves austere
and transparent phrases 
from the filthy discord
of tortured words—opens 
congealed fists of the past. 
All is new—the bright sun 





*Mathematics&Poetry—based on a mathematical square: the number of syllables in a line equals the number of lines. 
Adapted from poetry by Czeslaw Milosz

Copyright © Paul Geiger | Year Posted 2014

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DRUNK AND IGNORANT

A noble story one that ought to be our good host laughed and swore the games begun. Come match the knights tale if you can sir monk. To bellow arms and blood and bones he swore. A noble one I'll pay off the knights tale lets do this right. You tell yours by and by either I'll speak or go on my own way. Everyone listen but first i will propound that i am drunk i know it by my sound. For I'll tell a golden legend and a lie. Forget your ignorant drunken bawdiness it is a sin and great foolishness. Tell us of other things you'll find to lack i see you are angry with my tale but why. cuz you are a fool your head is overpowered by the wine. If you are not enjoying yourselves then cut off my head but as i drink my wine and ale. Whoever won't accept what i decide will pay for everything we spend along the ride. So hold up your hand if you accept my speech reflect a little and don't hold me to blame if you choose wrong don't lay it on my head. And both of them had bawdy tales to tell theirs no sense making earnest out of game.

Copyright © craig schaber | Year Posted 2011

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Skyping with Satan


Me: Since Samhain I have been chatting with Satan on Skype..On this date he celebrates his fall from grace..

Satan: Thank you Ken..You look marvelous today..What is your routine? You haven't aged in years...Is it diet and gym, the ladies and your erotic poetry?

Me: You are way too kind..(blushing)

Satan: Really, I enjoy your sense of eroticism, you have a fondness for the ladies I see..You should read "Justine" by my friend the Marquis de Sade..In order to know virtue, we must first acquaint ourselves with vice...

Me: Are you saying it is only through pain one can arrive at pleasure?

Satan: I'm saying you are unhappy because you desire things that cannot be..That's what desire IS, the need for what we cannot have..It's called greed...

Me: I have nothing to fear here..

Satan: Well Ken, there's always the truth..Maybe peace is acquired by the currency of loss..You are in love with perception..I have many friends here in hell with me you may have heard of, Anton Lavey, Aleister Crowley, Adolf Hitler among others..You should meet them..

Me: No thank you, I prefer to "Fear and Tremble" like Kierkegaard..I was taught your greatest truth was convincing the world there was only only one of you..

Satan: You know God loves you..

Me: Is that why you take interest?

Satan: You seek a measure of comfort from Women..Don't you know that love is the laziest theory for the meaning of life?

Me: But was not Faust saved in the end by the love of a woman?

Satan: I will not elaborate on your misconceptions..

Me: I'm just an ordinary human being with flesh, blood and bones..Nothing hard to decipher.. I wish for women and have needs..

Satan: They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions..Charming saying really..I say it is paved with intriguing questions...

Me: It is late, I have to go Mr. Satan...What time is it?

Satan: How much time do you need?

Me: No thanks..lol I have to go....
~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Copyright © Ken Carroll | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Science and Religion

My soul is Hindu...
My head is Islam...
My heart is Christian...
Every part of our body has various righteousness.

Every religion is teaching us the knowledge of humanity and love.
Truly religion gives us strong base of life and peace.

Similarly science means comprehensive knowledge.
Science is teaching us the knowledge of existence and prosperity.

Scientific religion is called spiritualism.
 
It's the historical contribution of science and religion.

SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA

Copyright © Sandip Goswami | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Son

I have a son
with more than his share of heart
and mindbody intelligence,
to comprehend vastness of Earth’s evolving history
and future demise,
to comprehend full emptiness of universes within
and without
co-arising nondual universes,
enough intelligence to become haunted
by our deep dualist dark insignificance
as a species,
and far less value even than this de-commodification
of AnthroCentric Futures,
his own autonomous Ego value so inconsequential
he doubts his worthiness of food he eats
of water he drinks
of air he breathes,
much less worthy of employment
or any developing sense of vocation,
purpose
meaning midst his human comedic environment
at its best a good musical comedy cooperative network.

This, he can more or less actually find
on-line,
but not so much within his own family,
much less school.
Well, maybe there were a few exceptions
to the individual student competing against all other students rule,
everyone playing an absurd Win-Lose game,
with loser death the inevitable outcome for each and all.

In the meantime,
should we choose to fiddle while Earth prepares to burn
why not orchestrate WinWin cooperatives
deep learning strategies,
more fun
more opportunity to improve interactive communication
and co-deductive dialectic analysis,
to live empirical-cooperative method
in an active healthy 
open communicative
mutual Win economic and political kind of Taoist way.

But, of course,
Taoism, in his expansive view,
hides in a Pandora box labeled “EXEGENESIS of RELIGION”
which is about a spirituality cat half dead
and unfortunately half alive,
as if spirit is any other than dynamic nature,
as if yin were other than absent reverse inside 
yang’s revolving time;
spirituality implying he walks through a divinely inspired comedy
with few speaking parts and no solos allowed,
which he knows could not be true
unless divine inspiration
is no more or less
than human natural regenerative DNA programming function,
developing form,
informational ergodic prime patterns and rhythms,
synergy,
integrative predestination of speciated form
revolving through Earth’s interdependent spaciated orbits of time.

To what end
could we possibly become
for one who is humanist musical comedy cooperative-preferred,
competition-averse,
with polyculturally inclined interests of rich dense fertile healthy sharing
this hour,
this game,
this day,
but without actively articulating hope for any self support,
thrival nutrients for his body;
not just his mind.

Surprising to me
how my lovely son quickly learned to see
spiritual as natural nonduality,
but has yet to recover his embryonic mind
as body co-arising transparency,
much less divine as humane musical comedic unity.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

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The Enigmatic Middle C

The Enigmatic Middle C
                                          by Odin Roark

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

And then there comes the uncovering…

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

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

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

Copyright © Odin Roark | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Deepening Dusk

Deepening Dusk
                by Odin Roark

How might this relentless approach of final darkness
present its final moments before curtain?

The acts have been rewarding,
even as the protagonist and antagonist
missed some cues,
made a few false entrances,
and at times confused the audience
of only me.

Thankfully…

My catwalk view
where having long ago embraced
Gordon Craig’s Uber-Marionette concept,
his self-aware-life-enactment
being simultaneously puppet and puppeteer,
prepared me well for the Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations:
    “All of us are creatures of a day;
    the rememberer and the remembered alike.
    The time is at hand when you will have forgotten everything,
    And the time is at hand when all will have forgotten you.”

Such is the synchronous epiphany
with a drama’s final curtain
allowing a moment’s pause
before one’s inner-house lights
illumine yet another transition,
from “what if” to “what is”  to “what might be”.

Hopefully the staging of one’s mirrored life
becomes companionable for the journey back home,
that place in one’s mind
where comforts remain tenuous
by often reluctant acceptance,
when overcoming challenges
is beyond one’s ability.

Yet…

To prepare for the final unpredictable,
when one’s deepening dusk
no longer finds the stage lit,
when illusion and delusion applaud together
the finished performance of one’s choices,
one’s experiences delineated into one’s
inner-monologue of truth.

    “Pass, then, through this little space of time
    in harmony with nature and end thy journey in contentment,
    just as an olive falls off when it is ripe,
    blessing nature who produced it,
    and thanking the tree on which it grew.”
                                                    Marcus Aurelius

Copyright © Odin Roark | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dodging Hate's Siren-Shriek

Dodging Hate’s Siren-Shriek 
                       by Odin Roark

He had survived
Six months believed to have made him a man.

Today,
He only wanted his mother.

Today,
Time was running slow,
Slower,
Stopping,
Begging.

Such hopeful beginnings,
Such bestial endings,
Caked fingers bear blood,
Water too precious to remove.
As desert sand’s insistence
Makes mockery of fear’s dry heaves.

Skittering boot prints
Like zigzagging sand pipers,
Short of food,
Wary of enemies,
Making patterns so plain,
This prophetic hide and seek death dance.

Today…

Seems right—today.
Months of sand storms and fire,
Left but sun baked flotsam,
Mixed decomposing bodies of friend and foe,
Their survival charges piled high,
Making but for stumbling of boots
Across rotted bodies and limbs,
Even flies and rats now ignore.

With fingers blood-welded to weapon,
He lay down among the carnage,
Eager to know the peace,
The quiet,
The involuntary resolve,
Just for a moment,
Or two,
Just until the siren-shriek
Of an incoming missile's presence...

Just until it finds him and stops.

Not much to ask.
Not much
If anyone…
Anything…
Is listening. 

Copyright © Odin Roark | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Love of Wisdom: Philosophy

Why isn't philosophy written most wisely
also poetic verse,
both-and analogical ecology?

While classic philosophic historians
continue this great debate
about which is most important,
truth or beauty?
this same political philosophy pit drifted off a bit from science
as economics shifted wealth away from health.

When did love of wisdom become distracted with comparing strengths
of richest truths as beauty's creative health?
Psalmists and poets have multiculturally declaimed and loved
their deepest and wildest cross-breeding space,
wisdom place.

I seldom enjoy Analytic Philosophy
or Continental Literature,
where most anything could and did mean something
but who knows what exactly
as we never cut and slice Earth up the same way precisely twice
because you can never go quite home again
nor should we necessarily try
to compete to conclude this language game. 

Juxtaposition strong and weak, as a Taoist, 
sounds like appositional dipolarity of Yang (strong) and Yin (weak). 

Ecological principles of permaculture design, 
principles of development, 
including investing in research into mindbody decomposition,
planting yang's monocultural seeds of logical truth and harvesting yin's beauty, 
may embrace this same dipolarity 
achieving Yang Monocultural Universality of Truth 
by flowing optimal Yin Polycultural Diversity, 
DNA/RNA's Harmonic wu wei Beauty, 
dialects and guilds of deep ecological balance 
and regeneratively healthy futures.

Juxtaposition also appears in Buckminster Fuller's Synergetics, 
and other evolutionary-weak through revolutionary-strong theories 
of intelligent RNA/DNA fractal-rooted design. 

Then again, we find dipolar appositional dynamics with David Bohm, 
ExplicateYang v. ImplicateYin Universal/Integral Orders, 
probably analogically equivalent to Fuller's ConvexYang v. ConcaveYin,  
nonduality of ExteriorYang with InteriorYin 
Janus-faces of ecological double-binding temporal harmonics,
focused on the far more wise regenerative space 
where Yang's truth of language 
defines Yin's beauty of balanced proportion, 
as positive equals symmetrically double negatives, 
and light's time equals dualdark cosmology of NOW.

I'm jus' say'n,
when Philosophy lost touch with TrueLove as PolyCulturingWisdom,
wealth devolved away from balancing analogical health,
of politically well-published communication
strings of DNA's regenerative health-centric 
True Creation Story Poems
of rhymes with reasons,
language signs of seasons.

Why are nondual philosophical poets
analogically juxtaposing ecologists?

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Breakfast With Ingenium

     It would be disingenuous to say that Ingenium did not have a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich for breakfast. It would boarder a lie to claim the same deity did not begin their morning exercise with a job through the unexplored corridors of the memory and imagery. The halls of memory are charted to an extent, but the cathedrals hidden down the vast tunnels of imagery seem always foreign and new. There Ingenium stopped to smoke a cigarette, leaning against a door marked "wooden". Neighboring this door were others, each with a replaceable placard screwed into the hard-wood. "Plastics" one read. "Trees" read another to Ingenium's left.
     Propped up by the "wooden" door, they watched blurred figures move behind the tinted glass window of the door before them. Dark letters were craft-fully painted onto the glass: "Office Furniture". There seemed to be an argument over vague physics terminology being held between two shadowy characters in the office space beyond the tinted glass. The abstract entity could only make out a few mumbled words, something about work force equaling applied pressure divided by ambition over availability. The banter failed to impress Ingenium, and the muse snuffed its cigarette against the oak molding of the "wooden" door before continuing its job.
     They passed other more decorative doors like "religion" or the red-white and blue striped door labeled "politics". It wasn't until Ingenium reached the door to the self that they stopped and released a sigh. Reaching down with unfathomable presence, Ingenium turned the red glass door knob and opened the door before it. A world of light and darkness poured out, flowing through the deity like whey through a screen. The curds that collected there were the substance of the soul. The cheeses that we ate that night were the mana of life, to be consumed today and gathered again on the morrow.

Copyright © Andrew Repenning | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

No Excuses

No Excuses

In the midst of the present, 
No excuses. 
Fell down, got up 
Then flight 
But the bruises ache
 As I turn the pages 
To move on, discern 
As one of lifes excuses.   

Practice, appease, try to please 
Yet I failed, Time and time again 
Possibilities pass me by 
And I thought 
Picked a wrong card.
 I cheated, lost
 But I could find 
One of lifes excuses.   

Felt love, lost love 
Heaven above. 
The thrust, the lust 
All embracing 
Till I got the rush 
Feeling the force of the crush 
Caught a diamond 
But a busted flush 
To my disappointment 
I had to run
 In the arms 
Of lifes excuses.   

Profession of music, geometry 
Physics and Biology 
Bisect,disect, Fusion of intellect
 Expanding virtues of trials and failures
But there is the revision, 
The safety Of lifes excuses

Copyright © Reggae Magnet | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Reliving Upside Down

Reliving Upside Down
                     by Odin Roark

The Jungle Gym geodesic glistened,
Afternoon showers dripped,
Languorous droplets fell, 
Saturating sand below,
Just like then.

Bench of parents
Reflected memories old,
Stroller wheels struggling,
Obstinate sand as obstacle,
Giggles and screeches
From canopy covered pram,
Bumpy ride for my brother,
His laughter, sheer joy.

Fathers,
Mothers,
Sitters and nannies,
Attentive to children’s every move.

So many eyes saw me
Atop the dome’s iron lattice,
Hanging by my legs,
Seeing the world upside down,
Shouting, “Look at me, Grandpa!”

He didn’t notice this day,
His sudden slumped body,
Dropped the half eaten sandwich
To the ground.

Part of me wanted not to upright my view,
That safety of abstract vision so foreign then,
So understandable now,
So strangely comforting then,
So painful now.

I now straddle atop the bars,
Thinking thirty-three years haven’t made it easier,
Save the bench now replaced
The sand succeeded by concrete,
The tenders and watchers now often of different purpose,
Staring at me not knowing
I’m anything but a nut case.

Some of us just discover
Life’s remembrances
Sometimes prophesy what is to come.

Some, like me, will realize
Their whole adult life is programmed upside down,
Its sophisticated induction lures escapees
Into free-for all playground-workplaces
Where capture so often comes by way of 
Pills,
Powder,
Liquid
Needles.

I smile.
Swing down to the ground,
Throw an embrace to Grandpa’s bench,
Look up and shout…
“Reliving upside down moments of love is okay.
Really…
It’s okay.”

Copyright © Odin Roark | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Never Waste our Time Trying to Impress Others

Time is precious and therefore we have to make it useful with a more better value for ourselves.
The moment when we meet a new person,  is it better just relaxed to be ourselves and do everything as normal.
When we can gain interests or the stakeholders, it is not necessary to change, only when we are trying to impress another person to give them a better impression.
But it is just a wasting of time and we may get ourselves overreacting with a confused attitude.
Because if we are sure of ourselves or something (a product), this is indicating the much confidence we have thus a change in character or dignified on our attitude is totally unnecessary.
Be ourselves will remain the best and deliver the lasting result, because we can not sustain lifetime for impersonation others.
To impress others there are usually also involved expenses and we need to use more energy because we imitate to be another person.
If we do something good for ourselves and for the community, it is not really necessary to impress others, just presume we make it for zero additional costs.
Good things will of course be spreading like the wildfire, especially when others are feeling contented, because word of mouth is the best thing that could happen.
Only impress ourselves by doing good things and something we can be proud of.
That will give the best impression for our life and every second is not a wasted time for us.
 
I wish you a healthy life.
Kindly Regards,
Author Jan Jansen
http://poems.easybranches.com/never-waste-time-trying-impress-others.html

Copyright © Jan Jansen | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

CHANGED MY Underwear,------- and My Name

I
change my name 
like 
underwear...
fairly often, I suppose

I 
change my clothes 
like 
area codes
and Imma' damn gypsy, ya' see

I 
keep it fresh ta' death
nada
speck of blood
or 
ketchup on my attire

I 
got more rhymes 
than I got grey hairs
and 
that's an effing lot
because i got my share

I 
digg a 
hot-fire piece of passionate verse
those are 
indeed 
rare to find

YET...
if  only poets would 
unleash the fury 
instead of 
holding back
what's really 
on their mind...

I must say...
the library, 
the internet, 
the etc. etc...
would be a less stinky place...
AND, maybe 
I'd keep my name, and sever ties with 
underwear's elastic,
and just go 
APE-Spit Spastic!~

Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Liquid azure sky

In a dream, I walked naked through a shimmering valley, high in the sacred mountains of a
distant world. The air was warm and moist; the ice I trod upon sparkled like precious
jewels. As I neared the precipice, I became intoxicated with joy. Suspended high above me
in a liquid azure sky, three golden suns drenched my perfect body with benevolent rays of
pure liquid love. I am the sun, the prism, and the rainbow. I am soul, child of God,
resplendent, perfect and free.

Copyright © Jean-Pierre Gregoire | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Allegoric Spaceship

Spaceship !

You know that spaceship is related with
Alien, Moon, Planet, Star, Stun Gun...

You may be right or wrong
I don't want to know it !

Sometime my soul creates a spaceship
I enter into it from my room with happiness

I try to visit everywhere....Soul to soul...Soul to super soul...

I seek problematic truth, solvable truth, universal truth, real magic , ...

I want to reach into the black holes....The signal...


Some great poets, writers, artists, scientists, philosophers 
Are searching the destination
And living one place to another place on the space...

They are moving...They are enjoying...They are dieing...

I am observing them from the window of my spaceship !

One day my spaceship will be crashed on the space...

SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA

Copyright © Sandip Goswami | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

THE WARRIOR

I am a warrior,

fighting the battles

of life's challenges,

tripping over the cracks 

on the sidewalks,

drinking cold coffee,

listening to sad songs,

working on taxes,

calling in borderline sick,

and driving the combative zone

of rush-hour traffic,

what seems so important now

will eventually become faded 

pictures found in a family album

whose dusty covers are a reminder

that warriors are not immortal.


,


Copyright © Sonia Walker | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Misstep Paradise

Misstep Paradise
                    by Odin Roark

Like the ocean’s waves repeating themselves,
mistakes love to revisit their beginnings,
gloat about their undertow power,
and patiently prepare the next towering breaker.

As if squawking gulls lining the landfall weren’t enough,
joining the prattle is the wind’s ever-repeatable,
“I told you so” oratory.

With ebb and tide behind them,
anxious errors reach progress once alive,
now but mazes of mischance,
ghost towns replete with obligatory tumbleweeds
scurrying past longevity’s sentinels of roaches and rodents
forever faithful to new arrivals.

Even as stored images of ethereal struggle
stay ensconced in supernatural satellites,
reality’s citadel of dust-caked walls and web-laced doorways
display shattered daguerreotypes,
torn photographs,
corrupted digital projections,
3D wanderings,
and holographic ghosts
of perfection’s folly,
holding fast to historical hubris,
mastery’s habitual bungling of headway.

At one end of actuality’s ghost town,
a dangling speaker bellows forth its ceaseless maxim:
“Misstep Paradise is all that matters,
as living life void of errors is to exist
without learning the monstrous reason for it all.”

Welcome to your personal shadow zone,
mind’s inner kingdom of fortuity,
where infinity’s turn-around sign of truth,
remains your chance to finally learn…

Copyright © Odin Roark | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Platos Titanic

Plato’s memory, holds Atlantean dreams; The utopia destroyed by techno-greed. Some things are simply not to be; the mortal staggers blindly through life; mortal entrapment is a souls prison. In a watery abyss, stone walls like wooden blocks, strewn across a sand box; hold secrets. A buried Republic, with lessons unlearned, gives birth the world’s end. This Earth, our home; is unsafe after millennia; it reburies its children’s mistakes, again and again. The only difference it will make, is to brown dwarf itself, when the children have ravaged its body; shredded and burned it to lifeless dust. Atlantean dreams, dreamt century after century, are drowned in tears. Atlantis, the Titanic of Plato’s era, is no myth, but a testament to human kinds, egotism and ignorance.

Copyright © M. L. Kiser | Year Posted 2014

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

Copyright © Ann Rich | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

River Jordan

Everyday I wake, I bathe in the river Jordan: taking with me the dirtiness from the yesterdays. Repeating the same sins, that were never washed clean. Reenacting the past and all its ways.

Copyright © Corey Brown | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

What is truth?

The question posed by a politician to Jesus after his arrest
It was Pontius Pilate Governor of Judea from A.D. 26-36.
To this day the answer still eludes politicians 

The politician and the diplomat
Two different tools used to make ugly truths palatable
And beautiful truths unrecognizable 

Politicians and diplomats never say No
Their Yes means maybe and their Maybe means No

Copyright © Monty Newman | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Christ Child

In eternity past, the Father asks the Son to go down.
Having equal Love for humans the "Yes" comes fast.
When Creation leads to time, the world waits for 4 BC
Marking the start of the end of Satan's long rule at last.

Did Satan laugh at the poor setting for Jesus' birth here?
A cry in a cave for animals pierces the night, changing all.
Shepherds worship; later wise kings give precious gifts.
Mary and Joseph marvel, yet Herod's rage soon gives a call.

A call to leave quickly to Egypt where they'll live as refugees.
Sparing the Christ child a merciless death of those under three.
When Herod finally dies, Jesus' parents head back to Israel.
Still not fully safe from mad rule, Nazareth is their destiny.

Here the child will grow to be a man, following His parents rule.
Surprising the Pharisees with His wisdom at 12, at 30 riling them.
Preaching with authority, healing the incurable, loving the humble.
Women weep repenting at his feet; one's healed by touching his hem.

Zacchaeus risks going into a tree and finds Jesus' salvation so free.
Nicodemus comes at night to ask and ends amazed he's met God's Son
The Woman at the Well gets far more vital water than the usual kind.
And many healed can't but tell others of the miracle God has done.

The babe in the manger now stills the storm and his disciples believe
Even seeing the dead arise, like Lazarus in the tomb for four days.
Foretelling a greater rising coming but not before immense suffering.
The sword Mary was told would pierce her heart is soon on its way.

For most religious leaders cannot tolerate Jesus' lack of respect for them.
Calling them whitewashed tombs and pointing pride out to Pharisees.
Not endearing Himself with the establishment, but following God's way.
Knowing soon He'd be betrayed, arrested, tried and tortured brutally.

Still, he calmly feeds them body bread and blood wine in a final feast.
Tells them the Spirit comes, and prays they'd be one like Father and Son.
Heads to the Garden, prays to His Father for another way if possible.
Your will be done ends and the soldiers come and with Judas kiss it's done.

The most pure, innocent Man who's ever lived is now in hostile hands.
A trial by dark without witness or any rights – and off to Pontius Pilate.
Then Herod then back to Pilate whose wife dreamed Jesus was innocent.
But the people's cries to crucify win over – Jesus caught in intrigue's net.

The child of Bethlehem now hung on a Cross between two criminals.
The Light of the World by darkness and our sins is being slowly slain.
Feeling forsaken by God, but then "Into Your hands I commit my spirit."
Reunited and soon to show the world that this Child was no ordinary one.

Risen as Jesus predicted, for how can death conquer everlasting, perfect life?
From childhood to adult not one sin, not once yielding to Satan's temptations.
Proving we can have life eternal if we confess and believe in Jesus as our Savior.
Calling His followers in risen form to await the Spirit and share Christ to the nations

Copyright © Scott Bronner | Year Posted 2012