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Prose Poetry Philosophy Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Philosophy

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

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Details | Prose Poetry | |


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 . "


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

Details | Prose Poetry | |



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


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


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. 



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


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.


Details | Prose Poetry | |


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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

That Which Is Real

Oh to be just a friend
To laugh, joke and play with you
Is not something
I know how to do
Oh how I wish it were
For it’d sure eliminate
All this pain I feel
Sometimes it happens
That starting off fun
Turns into something real
And what was meant to make you laugh
Turns into tears
That seem to take
Life’s  breath away
Leaving you to feel
Like there’s so much left to say
If only this, if only that
If I only could, if you only would
So many tricks of the mind
As we try to find
Justification for holding on
To what should be freed
So we can move on
Yet we hold out hope
In each accidental hello
That tides will turn
Though they have long washed away
It’s just the way of life
And how love burns
Until we learn
The difference in what we feel
And that which is real

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Kiss the ewe she never cries she never sighs she stays happy all the times we 
try. The eye was stopped by a patrolman in the middle of my walk to the church to 
lay my layman down to rest a night a bite of something not so sweet in bag to 
help me live. He said ADDRESS what is your ADDRESS like it's the most 
important thing to have NO eye said NO eye do not have a TUCSON address just 
one in Flagstaff. HOMELESS he said. NO eye said eye have the ADDRESS in 
FLAGSTAFF the one on my ID card. NO he said you are just HOMELESS in 
TUCSON. He noticed that eye cared nothing for any of that. WHY did yew not say 
that to begin WITH he said to me and eye just tried to ignore a man who has the 
world to shrug upon his Atlast Shoulders? PHONE he said ??? No phone what's 
your cell phone??? 
EEYE do not have a PHONE NO CELL PHONE eye almost cried. 
The Indian has no feather he is saved now he is in Heaven beside the MEE. Live 
in life wrap the world outside live the life of love and learn to live and love. Eat a 
LOT of CHARLAX eat a lot of poems eat a lot of Fabels now. 

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.


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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Tee Shot

Stance, grip,
settle in, shake out,
place the club head,
sweet spot kissing
the doomed ball,
a ripe plum
against the steel.
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.”
Perfection, shake out,
wiggling hips,
exhale, the paroxysm
of tension, mind and body
The flag appears
as a scrapbook photograph,
the drum roll crescendo
of concentration stops.
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.
Follow through.
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.
Direct hit on the green,
rolling, rolling, stopping
ten feet from the pin. 
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.

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.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

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 I have to go....
~ ~ ~ ~ ~

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.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Domino effect

i build the game to follow the rules,
a line a black rectangle, 
with white dots figuares,
who design such a figuare?

games of rules,
i just know i want to plan to win,

line all up straight like to view a zig zag moon,
but the moment it ends, another game begins,
but who do we call king?

with money on line every thing is  a game to a king,
place the stacks high how this type of figuare sit flat to sight,
it can't be that 

in the rules in life your in it to win it,
or the game will win you,
and i dont even know the rules to dominos.
i just watch from far,
as it all falls down!!!

one over laping the other,i this perhaps the order?

domino effects are you with it?

Details | Prose Poetry | |

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

change my name 
fairly often, I suppose

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

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

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

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

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!~

Details | Prose Poetry | |


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

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.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


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.

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...


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 | |

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Man Of The Poet

Quote the man of the poet and when the rain is gone can you say you enjoy the journey,
Or do you have live a lifetime to take in the stories,

They said it take century after the poets past for them to get recongonze a good poet
I wrote for the love of words and passions that took shape of a poet,

Never was it plan or never was it intend just happy like ice that become hail after the storm as
In hail what beauty of what we learn in age and time 

made you hear of the character of the man of the poet I look as this a journey
maybe more days to found new ways to improve this written skills

I would like to ask do you apose to my quest? Reject what I have say if not where is
Your character because every poet life shapes there poetry but who read they bio,

As most men lack character and affection give credit when credit is do
I guarantee they will try to slander my name because what I ready of other poets

There are all ways a rebut in the end I’m in love with love with the idea
Of beginning in love it’s something about words with woman may young men

Take my advice well I ask why look to stars and found my heritage in mind
And something call the Left Eye God a Myth that I have heard all I have to say is

May all myths where mint to be legend or legend to become a myth
But before we can tell only time can tell have any one heard of the word selah?

They said a myth among legend that two poets had the view poet of what is or was a poet 
One poet spoke of the transparent eyeball well the other said it’s a life of a poet that makes

One and you have to be told how to write poems that no one is natural poet  perhaps you
Heard of this poets… if not how could you become a better poet without understand

One of the point of views to take note to know the man of the poet the story 
they live goes beyond what is written quote me well……

I was never great speller but a excellent person to define a word of its meaning or orgin
What poet philosophy do you think I took in?

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Third Eye

Saints have third eye
They have seen to The Almighty into themselves !

Killers have third eye
They have seen to the regent of Death into themselves !

Even so , killers are blind !


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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

True Love

I loved my grand parents 
They passed away without my knowledge... 

I loved my parents
They left me without my opinion... 

I loved my life-partner
Life-partner intended to injure my life without any hesitation... 

I loved my friends
They wanted everything in my life
Except my pains
I left them...

Then I love my poem 
Who is an image of divine love !

Still she loves me without any demand

And her divine love will be continued more after my death
She promised me ! 


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 | |

Hey Friend- Refine your Mind

Every friend is an extension of me. Every friend has taught me what I am.
How can I not be thankful to those friends, who cared for me, loved me, 
and gave me a warm experience of the feeling of love?
How can I not be thankful to those friends, who made me feel that I am 

so beautiful, and gave me the feeling of being on the top of the world?
How can I not be thankful to those friends, who has given me the knowledge 
and helped me to stand in front of the world with the feeling of security.
How can I not be thankful to those friends, who went away from me and
gave me the experience of detachment from loved ones and loneliness?
How can I not be thankful to those friends, who cheated me and thereby
gave me the experience of the feelings of hate and anger?
How can I not be thankful to those friends, who left me and found another 
friend and thereby gave me experience of jealousy?
How can I not be thankful to those friends, who put me down and made me 
feel inferior by showing my weakness, giving me the experience of deprivation?
How can I not be thankful to ALL those friends, who just made me think 
that my mind is in the control of others and nothing is in my own control?
One day I sat in the corner of my room, thinking and thinking, looking here 
and there, and then saw what: A glance at a book of Buddha!

How can I not be thankful towards the Buddha who explained compassion to me .
My dear friend, destroy these mental seeds of those feelings that control your mind.
Why don’t you try to destroy these mental seeds of hate?
Why don’t you try to destroy these mental seeds of anger?
Why don’t you try to destroy these mental seeds of jealousy?
Why don’t you try to destroy these mental seeds of greed?
Why don’t you try to destroy these mental seeds of laziness?
Why don’t you try to destroy these mental seeds of clinging?

These emotions are very harmful to your mind…
Reform your mind my dear friend!
Dhamma will teach you, how to reform nothing other than your mind.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

New Meaning of LOVE

You know the old meaning of Love

Lake of sorrow...

Ocean of tears...

Valley of death...

End of life....

It's negative meaning of Love !

Now you read the new meaning of Love


Truly LOVE is LIFE !


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 | |

HIM of Praise

 HIM of Praise 
HIM of Praise 
 life; broken 
used unwashed homeless tired sad hurt questing for an answer, yes it is HIM 
who loves me JESUS. The answer to every question. ABOVE every other namme 
the HIM who seems so far away and yet eye find the love is still in evidence the 
richness in the finding.  Love is given never taken the takers and the shakers 
come to HIM and get dumbfounded, the poor questors will still receive 
communion.  Live is a mobius stripped not the start of the cradle to the grave 
sinfilled natural disaster somewhere in my timeline lies uninterrupted salvation. 
HIM who loved me also called me to tell his people of HIS namme. HIM who 
loves ewe also needs ewe to call on HIM in fear and trembling YES and then to 
drop the fear of days gone bye and love HIM for YES HE loves. HIM who writes the 
names in BOOK of LIFE loves all of us the namme of JESUS the namme the 
namme is JESUS. HE who brings us life also brings us days then HE adds them 
to our lives. JESUS. HIM of Praise. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |


The Samurai warrior stands unassuming, quiet, and fits in to the background on any occasion,
Each month is a month of new life, gales rush and sound over the tops of trees, he listens,
His life is one of wisdom and military education, he judges nobody but he protects innocence,
He respects all the seasons, the beauty of nature in all of its forms, a profound philosophy.

The rich cultivation of his disciplined spirit is a lifetime lesson, it has taught respect.
He watches as flowers show through the earth and wonders at their delicacy, a poetic beauty,
A true warrior treasures personal enlightenment, it is honed and is polished with refinement,
Enlightenment, watching pink cherry blossom in leafless trees, as nature provides everything.

Rich cultivation of the mind is expressed by his meticulous writings with skills of an artist,
His spring is spiritual, thick blossoms are pure a true joy, a China rose unfolds a red petal,
He lives an unwritten code of Bushido his values will never be comprised he is a man of honor,
And the true warrior holds loyalty and courage above all, he is veracious and has compassion.

Times in deadly combat does not take away compassion for the weak, the needy or the children,
A man of tempered steel, a man who would happily die for his cause, has a gentle simple life,
In a wood on a kind day, meditating on a warm rich river bank, the trickling water is peace,
The Samurai has respect for life, humility is the sign of power, a power through submission,

These hard won gifts, balance the Samurai warrior, he has a passion for philosophy, integrity,
As words can hurt others he carefully chooses what to say, when to say, each word is guarded,
To these men of few words, each word is a powerful statement and they do not abuse this power,
It's difficult to get them to talk, they will ask questions and they listen, then they advise.

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.

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.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Riding on the Coattails of a Pebble

The universe revolves around patterns and numbers.
Like an insomniac knowing not the meaning of the word slumber.
To say it's a big place would be a gross understatement.
If it were a face we'd be living on a farthing of a freckle,
a speck within a speck, in a weak attempt at communicating
with other fellow specks.
So where does that leave us,
being little more than dust riding on the coattails of pebble?
In the grander scheme of things
are we just the byproduct that some entity imagined one day
from a place both incredibly near and far, far away?
One who is a whiz at math no doubt...
Just look at the population,
how in it's in a constant state of progressive multiplication,
born into a world yet only to be divided into petty categories:
White, black, brown, yellow,
short, tall, slim, fat,
Asian, Caucasian,
European, Indian,
Yugoslavian, Brazilian.
It's a wonder we are recognized at all
living on this ball within a greater ball.
You wonder who holds the strings
or if we're all just windup toys;
alive and exciting for a time
only to run into the last gear,
the last programmed function.
Just what in the world are we doing here?
The universe may practice it's progressive multiplication
and subsequent division. That doesn't bother me.
What I personally like to do is find the GCD (greatest common denominator)...

... the fact we live and breathe. Ears to hear and eyes to see. So pick up the pieces... we have a long way to go if we can ever hope to solve this puzzle.

Though we may be a speck within a speck
riding on the coattails of a pebble, rejoice
with me. That you ARE, that you BE.

Take a good long look
at what surrounds you. It is much more than
it appears.
I don't know all the answers, but I do believe
we have a purpose here.

For the Nationality Contest.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

No Apathy

To be fit, you must be willing
     to feel pain.
To lose weight, you must be willing
     to feel hungry.
To be happy, you must be willing
     to give and give again.
To be free, you must be willing
     to get angry.

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.

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 

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.
It’s okay.”

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.

He only wanted his mother.

Time was running slow,

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.


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…
Is listening. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Poet

A bright morning sun reflected off the everlasting hills and over blushing flowers,
Then onto whispering trees heavy with fruit, over purling steams and dimpled lakes,
A poet, dipping his pen into the ink that writes of pure images in the urn of truth,
Writing besotted letters, of imperishable brightness, weighing immortality of nature.

Having the wisdom of nature suited to the right regulation and adjustment to changes,
That exists in man to understand the beauties of nature not just on a summer morning,
Nights are spent in the midnight oil chasing words to express the beauty we all see,
Words to highlight understanding to enhance desires and refinements to see as the poet.

Revelations not beyond reach to bring beautiful scenes into homes, the true philosophy,
When philosophy acknowledges the unlimited range of its sphere bringing light to all,
Whose posy has charmed the fancy and whose works have enriched the world of letters,
Many poets whose eloquence has astonished even only a few, the researches are rewarded.

Details | Prose Poetry | |









Details | Prose Poetry | |


by: Acquah Vicki on Saturday, June 9, 2012 at 12:07am ·














Details | Prose Poetry | |

Let us Not Lose Sight of the Moon, While Counting Stars

Let us Not Lose Sight of the Moon, While Counting Stars
Sometimes we are so busy in our life with some unimportant things that we forget to give enough attention to our core and to the most important person for us.
The moon will never disappear while we counting the number of stars, and it will still remain more important than the star for our existence.
So moon represent those we dearly love and beloved, because we can always count on them when we need any support.
Deep in their heart, they will always be there for us in our daily life or whenever we have problem.
Therefore it is very important for them to be always involve in our life as a bridge between the stars and moon.
Received attention from others or give it back to them is a privileged in a relationship and it can give good feeling, so do not let the most important people in our life to suffer.
It may give a wrong impression which can cause jealousy or attention came out from deficiency and that brings us into trouble.
Because there may be disagreements come from the wrong flow and causing an unpleasant situation with mixed feeling.
That would turn our entire standard of living to be unbalanced which can give a different meaning for our life and we do not feel at ease.
If we really can think good about it and read into other’s people mind then we should have absolutely taken into account with it.
Because we ourselves were probably also not accepted it so we have to try avoid bad things from being happened.
But things done is done,  just let go but take it as a good lesson for next time.
As the proverb say “Don’t lose the moon while counting the stars”.
I wish you a healthy life.
Kindly Regards,
Author Jan Jansen

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Words From My Thoughts

I spent the days looking at the ground
I thought the world had clipped my wings
I spent the hours saying I felt down
I had no strength. I felt entangled in things
And then I hear you called me (Godson)
I set my face into the breeze
I lift my head. I spread my wings and I am free
My heart was heavy in the valley down below
My soul was empty, void of love

My sight was cloud by the dust the world blows
So I set my mind on earth not things above
But now your lifts me up 
From the sick bed in which i lie groaning
I will not be conquered, I am destined for your love
Courage is three letter words
Real courage is saying YES to life
Not backing down when faced with adversity
courage is acting with fear, not without it
Angel! I really love you deep down my heart.

Life is filled with challenges and opportunities
Mountains to be climbed conquered with others to follow
When you are no longer interested in climbing mountains
to see other mountains to climbed, life is over
Vision sees the invisible
Believes the incredible
And then receives the impossible
This makes the blood never to run cold
Because loves for the path of the future lives
A mind that makes Success my QUEEN

Details | Prose Poetry | |


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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

That is Life-Such is Life

A jungle of mysteries, ruled by uncertainties nurtured by intrigues and cycles but invaded by misnorma to fairness is a system, sustaining all animate interactions. This is Life! No rule, no formula, just connections with only one goal: Survival. The summation of one and one differs in various situations. An Engine powered largely by fate, averagely by efforts and relatively by luck is its inevitable offer which cannot be rejected. That is Life! Attracted to a beautiful flower like a bee then abandons it to make its comb on a tree. A being can be in command to all achievable accolades but is still never at the top, like an employee. Such is Life Making an attempt with fire can result to so much glee but absorbing its mere flames alone can make you pay a huge fee. A hopeful, innocent and cute new bride now becomes wiser, stronger but a divorcee. Such is Life! It can be the hotness of coffee with sweet smelling expectations but swift bitter results. Surprise! Its wholesaler, glancing afar to see but what is really wanted is just below the knee. such is Life! It is a supermarket; absolutely free, naked one goes in no matter the shopping spree nor the testing of best Diamonds naked shall one come out that is the only guarantee regardless of whether you agree! life!

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Thirteen Takes

When caught mid-flight
End to bloat against gravity
Thanks, rejection is not of the earth

My eyes are welling
I won’t hold back with shame 
Even warriors often times loosen, weeping

A good mother’s breast thrust
Not in for the oldest trade 
Gives the child, from infant, the best trust 

The sexton is a pagan
Lushness of the hashish field
Makes his story from Canaan

Morals pillar nobility
But nature spares by – 
Insofar as the choice is moderacy

Over me they seek to keep 
They can shape me, me too a shaper
Just that I start a peep

A quest to solve the world 
Challenged to fix my head 
Get me defined – no word

Launch talks for luck
One screen sets parts 
Grace, lone-stands, earns buck

Formless strife made me worry
An envoy made as of succubus
Made me awoke being sorry

He who sounded the gong
Has done it wrong
And rhythm’s lost in our song

The earth, about the Sun, rotates
Science, my house remains on its plot
Lies make the pupils dilate

Africa! Here some questions
Khartoum, Mogadishu, Malaria, HIV, Genocides . . .  ?
Orients through Occident find me solutions

Muses – a kind that’s potent
Might make me hit the laureate’s podium
And be free of amateurish latent!

Details | Prose Poetry | |


                                        A Universal Utopia thatched by 
                                a dream of future heaven on this world
                     After a long journey just immature waiting to be matured
                    Piercing with voiceless ringing through the particles of time 
                        Days are peeping in to the afar blessings which will fall
                    Seeds of perfection gradually planting to bring all perfections
                  by broadening the hatch way in between the world and heaven

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 | |


The darkness that soaks you,

Dedicated to your way,

It’s all you are gifted merely.

Be your own light.

Be the firefly.

What choice else remains?

What choice?

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Education is Power

Who is in charge of our children's education?
What happens when parents don't do their job?
When children have no sense of reading, writing,
till they hit that school room head on?

Who is responsible to initiate, ingratiate, the word,
so language is understood from infancy and
not suddenly at five years old when
communication receives the attention it deserves?

Parents stand up and take notice
schools do not provide the only source
You are your child's first teacher
You are the one who gives him voice.

From you he will learn expression
From you he will learn who he is
From you he will learn his roots
Give him your love and attention.

Provide an environment filled with books
A place where reading takes precedence
Instill in him a joy for learning
With gentle hand and loving looks.

Model the love of learning
read on your own or with
till without even knowing
he'll develop a yearning
to know, to explore, to evaluate
all there is and more.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Obsessions Madness Walking Insanity Talking

Madness ?, Walking.
Insanity ?, Talking.

Life has not always been a walk in the park,
more often than not - a long and winding road
through the shadows - not hidden by the dark.

Life has not always been on the straight and narrow path,
but it is a journey that one takes towards a trail
that will lead one towards the end of a long lane,
a lane that egresses the lush green of life's adventures,
away from all that led one into those desolate lands,
of deserts - dry, mountain tops - cold, north and south poles -
earth's ends, outer space - life anew - no more a heavy load.

B.J."A" 2
September 21st 2009

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

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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

Details | Prose Poetry | |


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

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Pharisee went into the Temple to pray
Sure of his goodness and love for God
He prayed confidently about his deeds
Fasting, tithing, praying, He did faithfully
This man was glad when the sinner came
Into the Temple with eyes downcast.
For it gave a perfect contrast to himself.
So he thanked God he wasn't like this sinner.
Sinner was bowed so very low before God.
"God have mercy on me a sinner." he whispered.
No list of good uttered, as he could see none.
Jesus said Sinner not Pharisee was justified.
Simon the Pharisee invited Jesus over to eat.
Simon didn't have servants wash Jesus feet
He didn't kiss Jesus or draw near for fear,
Fear of what others Pharisees would think.
In came a sinful woman with unkempt hair.
She wept at Jesus feet without looking up.
Carefully she wiped these feet with her hair.
Simon was now sure Jesus was no prophet
A prophet could surely tell she was a sinner.
How could he let her touch him that way?
Reading Simon's thoughts Jesus taught.
Using this contrast in real life as a lesson.
He asked Simon if there were two debts
One greater, one lesser and both forgiven.
Who would feel greater love and gratitude?
Simon replied, "The one whose debt was greater"
"Correct" said the One who would pay all debts.
Those who know their debt to God is great.
Are filled with greater love toward the Savior.
Simon showed he had little need for the Christ.
But to the woman. Jesus said, "You sins are forgiven."
"Go and sin no more." She stood free and esteemed
Precious are those who come humbly to the Lord
He will forgive and welcome them to His Family forever.
Humility. Pride. Contrast. Mixed in all of us.
People who come to God feeling worthless, Christ lifts up.
People striding in proudly, Jesus humbles to allow entry.
For the Lord's Kingdom's door is incredibly low.
So low that we enter only through true confession
From the heart to Jesus as Savior who humbled Himself
Coming down from glory to earth's mess to make a Way.
By humbling Himself on a Cross – Universe's God tortured.
Jesus contrast makes ours seem small – so why wait?
May we take the humble road to Life, risen Christ made.
Joining God's family of forgiven, freed, joyful sinners.
New life's contrast with old will grow as we follow Him.
By a thankful sinner now saint by Jesus' grace

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Level Of Intention 
eye had to pay for internet by the hour the word the line 
eye ran out of money in 1995 
the Computor had a dollar slot and a coin changer on the side 
the people eye worked for had all the consoles set up to lock me out 
the internet worked for my anyway if eye fed them enough coins online they let 
me out of the dungeon chamber long enough to smurf someone gave me coins 
for blood eye dripped enough to make the online hound sit up and beg inn 
Eiderdown the motel stray the bed is bound and wet just toss it out the bed 
cannot be found to dry it takes a never day just burn all of the buildings down In 
2003, lecturers and students from the UP Media Lab Arts course used a £2,000 
grant from the Artistic Console to study the literary output of real monkeys. They 
left a computer keyboard in the enclosure of six monkeys in a ZOO in Briton for a 
month, with a radio link to broadcast the results on a website. One researcher, 
Mike Phillips, defended the expenditure as being cheaper than reality TV and 
still "very stimulating and fascinating viewing". Not only did the monkeys produce 
nothing but five pages consisting largely of the letter S, the lead male began by 
bashing the keyboard with a stone, and the monkeys continued by urinating and 
defecating on it. The zoo's scientific officer remarked that the experiment 
had "little scientific value, except to show that the 'infinite monkey' theory is 
flawed". Phillips said that the artist-funded project was primarily performance art, 
and they had learned "an awful lot" from it. He concluded that monkeys "are not 
random generators. They're more complex than that. … They were quite 
interested in the screen, and they saw that when they typed a letter, something 
happened. There was a level of intention there." 
Given enough time, a hypothetical Monkey typing at random would, as part of its 
output produce one of Shakespeare's plays (or any other text) when the eye was 
a boy they were saying it was the Gettysburg Address. Placing 100 monkeys 
inside the computer room and letting them type the sound of the keyboards is 
deafening making a poor noise of institutionalistical importance. They did not 
type the Gettysburg address they typed and typed and this is what they typed they 
made it gibberish there is nothing much a monkey types that a poet can ever 

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The mental quality of spirits is unveiled.
Anne saw them in imagery.
They were in small shapes as a displayed mural.
A bust of lives demised with estate being conveyed as an inhabitant or the occupier.
Their capacity was that of full animation and stream.
Anne watched the mystical images that were once all men.
Their colors came as black, white, and olive.

Attuned to their surroundings, they did not alter their position on the wall.
They desire was to rectify a wrong.
Calibers are competent to their form in which Anne was not afraid of being forewarned.

Anne began to name them the ones that she saw.
The black one was called Magic because he was the leader of them all.
There were two level of white men seated by rows.
Anne named them Parchment because of their lab coats.
The olive one was called Mixed-Blood.

Stature they formed with ability to construct.
The degree of their mental capacity paraded the capability of the physical you being possessed.
Might they enter via an oval of the body?
They haunted this house to influence cognizance.
Anne’s knowledge is such that she may not be aware of their existence from where they exist.
Ignorance is the perception Anne lived in.

Anne and her family moved from this house in her seventh year.
She saw their presence first when she was four.
Once Anne and her family left, she did not see them anymore.

Anne moved on Briesch when she was an infant.
She never spoke of what she saw until she relocated.
Anne’s mother stated that a veil was over her eyes, a pall of despair trying to develop premonition.

Caliber is a degree of mental capacity or moral quality.
Anne cultivated this identity.
Penned February 17, 2014!
For Anne Currin Contest Any Poem/Any Subject! 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Idioms of a Critical Thinker

Attacking others will never gain you ground
You’ll see the enemy when you turn around 

Stand and face the eyes you see
Within the mirror is the inner me

 Gaze upon this sight, until the face is changed
Your thoughts within, soon utterly rearranged

Even as you read, you do not understand
Do to erroneous conditioning, since girl to woman, and boy to man

 Let go of emotions you know that are wrong
 As only the collective suffers, from this detrimental song

 I’ve studied your thoughts and hear you cry
 Struggling with fixations you know are a lie

I study your mind inside and out
Observing your observations of matters you know nothing about

 Someone has deceived you, into believing castles in the sky
 Although you possess the power, you find comfort in not knowing why

You’ve taken a pill, and normal is your sick 
Are these the words of reality or just simple limerick? 

You Be The Judge.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


between you and me
a shadow falls
between all joys and sorrows
a shadow falls
between order and chaos 
a shadow falls
between questions and answers
a shadow falls
between love and hate
a shadow falls
between yes and no
a shadow falls
between work and leisure
a shadow falls
between all possibilities
a shadow falls
a shadow falls
between shadows
shadow falls

ONE OF YOUR BEST - Poetry Contest
Sponsor	gautami phookan

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Beatnik Snaps

           Beatnik Snaps

(poet sits on a stool in the café and begins)
I could onomatopoeia all day daddio
With cool sounds in the iambic pandemics sphere out there.
“Far out man…far out… Onomatopoeia all the way” (The crowd shouts and snaps fingers in approval.)
On the down winds jive below slow jazz notes I go
Goatee Joe eats the avocado on the down and low 
Basements bottomless souls measured tuna outlet cries out
The bongo boys drag on the joint while munching on the tacos loco
Cigarette smoke lays down a cloud…talks to the humming bird
Laying down some heavy tones to the bones with the smooth sax
Cats calling in the alley way cruising on the cat nip trip 
Waiting on a little miss kitty called Pussy Meow
She’s a no show Joe.  Man, that’s no way to go.
In the wild thick woods of words working on his behalf
The half past 1952 Johnny, goes marching home
Alone down Bluesville Avenue in a zoot suit out back Jack
Slick black jacket looking for some chicks on the beatnik clicks
Notes raining down on the sax as some jive time chumps 
Get busted by some jive time cop
Flat foot flopping down the street with some flat foot beef to pound
Drowned on pounding grounds outside
Down in the drip drop flop of day….Grazing on the rain.
                    “Shows over Jack and Jill.”
                    “It’s been a thrill.”  (More finger snaps from the beatnik crowd)
                                Debaucheries Departure
Sooner or later we gotta blow this café gig…..Dig?
Slurred speech measured beats by bongo boys bid a retreat
In matters like this …..tipping matters….and meter matters…My meters dry man.  
We tapped out our tab long ago so….One last drink!
What’s your poison my onomatopoeia friend?…He retorts; “You’re right.”
 “ I don’t want to pay it either”…. but we gotta get out of this joint.
What kind of iambic pandemics beatnik friend do you think I am?
In deed briated with liquid libations I guess….. (Snaps)

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fable Tenth

 Fable Tenth 
Fable Tenth 
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 | |

Valley of the Universe

It matters not how we flourish in this valley of the universe, grazing in our meadow of celestial existence.

Life blossoms, life perishes on this pinhead of eternity but we strive to see the seasons through and escape the lurking perils, whether nature's or man's will.

In trepidation we anticipate the seasons predictable course. Springtime comes bringing beauty and warmth, igniting life, our petals unfolding in full glory.

For all mankind, there's a time, one season will not appear. Predictable as timely segments but not in content, we love the treasures that they bring but know they're mere signals to the finish line.

Life should be cherished, we should grow to be our absolute best but deep inside us we're aware that life is but a smudge on the handkerchief of Creation.

Our Earthly minds can not comprehend the endless possibilities beyond the stars and while space expands we continue to rape and pillage our own gift of a planet. 

But to the juggernaut called Creation it matters not how we flourish in this valley of the universe.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lost Time

Cold commercial relics of industrial production;
As if production could harness the complex origin of pre-classic contemporaries.
Master’s of earthly arts and masonry,
Their blood and fears culminating in celestial creations of historic proportions;
Over vastly constricting landscapes.

I send phalanges of lost connection,
Deep past the ordinary boundaries of normal paths.
The sandy soil nourishes my calloused souls.
At night it soothes and refreshes the canyons between cracked and missing digits.

Frogs echo through the expansive night sky.
Resonating between the stars, and returning in an extremely complex yet simple pattern, 
their message is sent.
Louder with each chirp and bellow, subtle patterns illuminate the differences in each response.

The spring has come.  
Time to refresh the foot’s connection with continual movement.
Let your bellow dig deep to the soil of space’s horizons,
And return rooted in the rhythm of earth’s timing.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Behind the curtains

Behind the curtains,
Behind it all,
looking at it from the higher throne,
the throne of a higher purpose,
the throne consisting a universal spectrum.,

Architectural designs screeching through the data of the universe,
one eating the other like a game of pacman,
artificialness spreading its disease towards the human creation,
preventing it from extracting its inner release!.,

Universal beings we are,
infinite our spiritual growth indeed is,
infinite life is,
life at the moment is just not is,
its just the pure artificialness.,

The artificialness which is preventing us from becoming complete and destroying the privilege of we obtaining our higher purpose in life,
the higher purpose that we would be the universal beings we had to be and that's truly be connected to god and its creation the universe as one divine formulation.

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.

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.


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.


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

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Summon the strength 
to confront pain, grief;
to endure danger 
or the threat thereof. 
Campaign with determination 
to face a valiant struggle. 
Boldly challenge the fear within 
to prepare for resistance 
with instinctive 
physiological response.
Compel a coercive compulsion 
to become valid.
Assume risk when others retreat.
Stand for righteousness
in the face of adversity.
This is the nature of courage.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Bible Cover

My new Bible cover has a zipper you open
and close using a cross …
On the one hand I rely on the cross to
open and close a side pocket to my Bible. 
Should I rely on this cross … yes but should 
it be on the side? Shouldn’t it be on the main
zipper? Shouldn’t it be the one that opens 
to the Book? Shouldn’t it be the cross, by pulling,
tugging, yanking on it, open eyes, heart, and mind 
to the truth? Can I trust enough that if i lean on 
this object, it will aid me in opening my life to the Word?
Do i love my new cover more than what it covers?
as I flipped to the back i noticed the tag
“Genuine Leather Body” it states, “with simulated 
leather trim.” is my faith only 
genuine leather with simulated leather trim?

Details | Prose Poetry | |

When Alone

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Strange philosophy

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A reference for every thought

A reference for every thought

Deconstruct all you think and find the link
To the last time you felt that way
Heard the words
Learned that fact
Disassemble the pieces of the things and 
Actions you hold to be true
Find the place in the litany of your life
And note down the author, the theorist
The lover and map the route to the
Conurbation of storehouses and pyramids
Of belief and time
Track each thought, each breath, each moment 
That constructed these towns of ideas
And live the informed like evaluating each
Fortify only the foundations of these that
Hold under such intense surveillance

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Across the River, West 'tis that 
at the cliffs & clefts of Victoria above
blackish waters slick as Legislation, of Verrazzano
& not-so-merried ferries, the promontory sits of
visage, resplendented of red deer & red bear &
white Eagles' scat from Lady Liberty!

Why, in the glare of where, opossum
& red squirrel, vied in-passioned
imposters of small virtue in deed  
sought, wrought of purloin
for some vertu & bijouterie 
for Manhattan!
(The Chief Islander) - so the Mythic goes!

But hey!, it's up-on the BigScreen, now
playin' @ The Bijou, & in the dutri-plexes
& plexes of plexiglasse & 
MegaPlexes of Tribeca, in the Tri-boros+2...

Avaunt! Above Verrazzano visage    
tramontane, there! the Filth & Flair
of City fare, miasma which got us into
insouciant Dutch!

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A true best friend


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
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 
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,
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 | |


I am not handsome
So my love is not in my physique
Am not rich,
So my love is not bulging in my pocket
Only my brain is wild
And my mind is mild
A fanciful tunnel links both
Its walls,
Romance lurks and links close

Where a man’s treasure is
There you search out his heart
Mine locked you in as its treasure
A drop of tear from your eye
Is twin to a sword thrust through my heart.
My love is in you

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
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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Seasons of no reasons

seasons have became with no reasons,
looking at the light of the sun in winter and rainy clouds in summer,
I start to ask myself why all this?
perfect silence I tune into as I start to realize seasons do not exist anymore,
the temperature of earth has changed into a really confused state,
natural life is dying infront of our eyes!,
we still don't even do anything about it!,
big pain I start to feel in my heart,
as I realize we are destroying the tree of life and the spark of natural goodness from our creator, God Itself.,

The colorful fruit starts to become the rotten fruit,
the green trees start to become the black trees,
every natural thing starts to turn into dust!.,

The color of our planet starts to change,
everything starts to fade as the procession of the spiritual revelation starts to get deeper.,

The human being starts to feel sorrowfulness down the pipe of its life!,
as it realizes that only trying to find meaning for it's life is causing others to suffer,
thus their is no meaning for it's existence,
thy to bond & share with others by experiencing oneness it would find meaning.,

Meaning of it's existence would be valid as it is being what it had to be and thats the guardian & true parent of it's species just by becoming selfless,
transcending to us all where we would be experiencing the wisdom of true love as one sequence elevating towards resurrecting the formulation of our divinity.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


They were hippies 
and societal dropouts.
Scholars, poets and 
pot smoking draft dodgers.
Civil right activists,
and anti-war protesters.
Patriots and soldiers
fighting an unpopular war.

Relationships were confused
and marriage became open.
Morality lost meaning and
God  was largely forgotten
except to grape Kool-Aid drinkers.
They liked to “groove”
on a Sunday afternoon
and kids hid under desks
for H-bomb drills.

They were good and bad
and pretty and ugly.
They were raised on Dillon, 
Joplin, Hendrix  and Doors.
Motown was happening 
with The Beach Boys,  Zeplin,
and the Rollin Stones.
Paul Revere had his Raiders,
Love was a Spoonful and
Three Dog was the Night.
The Beatles reigned supreme.
Sullivan was a king maker,
Elvis was a soldier,
and Archie and Meathead
were "All in the Family."

They welcomed the British invasion
and hung out at Woodstock -
sometimes in the nude.
Many were students 
who got high and
routinely cut class.
Most of them were psyche majors
trying to “find themselves?”
LSD was a bad trip 
that many took.
Sex was free 
and there was a lot of it.

They were spoiled, selfish,
lazy and genius.
They grew up late, 
but at least grew up.
They hid their past
and regretted much of it.
They were artistic,clever 
and very  inventive.
They are also to blame for 
much that is wrong.
Many are in denial
and most have regrets.
They were the boomers
of the baby boom generation.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


we must have been angels
before the devil taught us to lie
we must have been angels
before anyone knew how to cry
we must have been angels
unbelieving in the grace of God
thrown out of heaven
made into something odd
such powerless creatures
we human beings
forgetting what we were
in the very begining
where do babies come from
if not from God
they have mothers and fathers 
but when did they start
what made the cells 
that made us, us
and why are we men 
instead of dust
why do we think and learn
more than others
the mysteries of life
that men have discovered
were some angels sent from heaven
and others sent to save
all the company of heaven
wittness to God's grace
proving God's claim to be great
God's Holiness created
by his grace
His perfection at His pace
we must have been angels 
before the beggining of time
we must have been angels 
before the devil lied

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fate Kismet and Karma

There is no accidental meeting… Between kindred souls For your fate is made, as surely is time fleeting And no more stranger than quasars and black holes It’s all preordained in some grand cosmic way Beyond mortal bounds or human control The people you meet, what you do or say Is not managed by you…e’en in part or in whole Though you might think differently in the course of the day That you’re making the rules…writing your own roles The Gods laugh their asses off and to each other say: “What impudence: to think that they set their own goals!” For it’s Fate, Kismet, and Karma, that in the end sets the way For those “accidental meetings, between kindred souls”

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Last Door

The Last Door
Arabic Poem By: Ali Al-Iskandari*
Translated by: 
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)

I don’t have a thing in this world  but my heart and my poem
 If you loved me for my heart, my poem would remain 
 A homeless orphan searching amidst the claws of sadness 
 For a traitor man who deserted her
 and fled with a woman.
 If you loved me for my poem,
 My heart would die of the cold.
 So take me in your hands, a romantic heart
 And a poem from the heart,
As my heart alone without the poem is a ruin, 
And my poem alone
Is a lie.


 When you enter my heart, don’t close the door; 
A flock of doves is behind you,
It follows you from The Thousand Nights; 
And, also, behind you
Are the treasures of the East,
The brides of Babylon,
The crowns of kings,
And a bird waiting for permission
Since the beginning of the creation.

And when you go out of my heart
Be more magnanimous and leave me a little bit of warmth
And a handful of your luminous days
As I’ve been besieged by the cold since the first Ice Age
And there is not a drop of oil 
In my lamp. 

Translated by: Em. Prof. Inaam Al-Hashimi

* Ali Al-Iskandari is an Iraqi poet.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Dedicated to Henry Miller

She floats to me towards, like a Jazz... 
Defiantly jumps in my green back yard.
She’s waltzing through the fence in Sunday morning. 
I’m having cup of coffee with a joy.
My cigarette is melting far away.
I’m singing K.D. Lang with puffy smoking. 
Just fly, my robin, fly, up to the sky
And bring me youth from 70-s “Convention”.
“Oh, She is so beautiful !”, - I’d say. 
I’m looking at My Angel with delight 
And watching her brown hair in the wind:
It flutters like white sails in the ocean.
Her eyes are calling me with sunshine light. 
You came to me ! My Muse ! My Inspiration ! 
I’ve waited here so long for you
By dreaming in the late dark endless night. 
I am playing you this Bossa Nova song
When sundown touches sunrise in the morning.
I’m making every sound like a craft 
And stitch-by-stitch my melody is playing. 
My voice is low and gentle, cricket’s sound.
Oh, Bossa Nova... Portugal...Brazil…
My soul groans under Argentina... 
Guitar and maracas are touching my heartbeat.
Hiroko Tokuda and Henry Miller, I
Became the captive of your “Water Colors” dreaming.
I wish I’d start the paintings by my heart.
He woke up at 3 o’clock, at once,
And cracked the shadows of imagination.
His timeworn brush was touched by magic hands.
Musician… Artist…Writer…All in One…
He’s got so many talents in one person.
Why can’t I take a brush and start explode
Myself upon the canvas on the cloud ?
Is Kundalini still asleep in my poor mind ?
Am I a frozen Snow Queen with no movement ?
Gomen-Nasai ! Please, forgive, My Muse !
I do not justify your expectations.
But I have hopes that, one-day or night,
I will wake up and take my brush and colors
And Bossa Nova will be dancing on the wall.
Black Canvas Capricorn… White Tropic of December...

Original version – August 2006
Fixed Version – August 2008

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Thoughtless Explosions of Verbiage

In times of joy and in times of pain 
words are the only elusive attempt at portrayal 
Daunting Contraptions Contracted in a few fleshy pounds 
hidden in a bloody swirling cesspool hiding in our skulls 
Thoughtless explosions of verbiage fill the pages of 
time & space in this place, feeble attempts at nothing 
merely interjections of uselessness. We canter down 
these halls of life opening doors & closing others, 
doors hard to shut are better left open. To breath the 
breath of life through these pounding heads of humanity. 
Beating its burden of confusion & false hope straight to 
the source ... producing order? What a concept in this place 
as to say a controlled explosion our existence is 
the oxymoron that is all. We live the days like 
the pun of some joke that's been forgotten. 
We soothe our souls with others expressions, broadcasting 
feeling to the masses. Ideas thought for someone else 
helpless sheep in this hillside pasture we're spinning on. 
Songs of hope & joy inspire & drive others to the end. Confident 
that more words will help in the future. Addicted to 
others feelings & ideas to produce our own. Mindless bites 
gurgle out real life for ratings while we all watch 
ourselves and turn back to the box. The box should 
falsify our existence but then the black emptiness that 
has become our hard existence. Tired lonely 
followers dancing till the end .... 
Ah the end 

Details | Prose Poetry | |


I dont understand how i Saw some things...
Like the origin of language on walls
        And the begging of time..
Is it only in your brain,
    to bring value and meaning?

I do not understand some things like 
   Where does it come from and how
Does it surface?
                       Does everyone feel
                           Or only the ones who know...??

I do not understand some concepts such as Doom, which i have seen.
Is it Good or Bad?
Can it bring quality of life?
It doesn't make sense to me and often times you can't even remember but then all of a sudden it bites you again! I just forgot what i wanted to write about Doom, but I've seen it
It's gone..
I had it explained to me once.

Are the answers written outside?
I see a lot of signs, but makes no sense 
Let the thought count, and not the word

I do not understand why I got to see

Details | Prose Poetry | |


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

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

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Faltering Freedoms

Faltering Freedoms

Today our freedoms fall one by one,
disappearing but not by an act of war,
if we don’t wake up there will be none,
while the politicians knock on the door.

Slowly adding more governmental rules,
with idles promises to delight our minds,
sadly designed to control our very tools,
chronicles continue to repeat over time.

Such mirrored images of a forgotten past,
covers the handwriting there on the wall,
there was a time when freedom could last,
engulfed in indifference may enslave us all.

Harmony’s false images invite silk flowers
destroying the defenses of freedom’s needs.
while individual rights are slowly devoured,
we never listen to sounds of history’s pleads.

Americans used to fight to preserve our way,
with God, freedom, and honor held on high, 
sadly the media and politicians lead us astray,
tyranny transforms boldly and never is shy.

Samuel E. Stone, Copyright© 2008, All Audiences

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Here and There

Here and there 
I can see 
frauds at ease
Here and there
can observe
Honesty at seize

Here and there
I can notice 
to the tops
Here and there
can discern
with mops

Here and there 
I am aware of
at praise
Here and There
I observe
Evils that raise

Here and there
Too you can see
Developing devils
Here and there
The world is aware
Of evil mills

It's that world 
somebody feels
of the same
status with evil deeds

But can do nothing
He can only stare
With feet as bare
On the sticks of fire

Know it
Feel it
Stop it

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A day of Rapture poem 1

" of choice", "for even is there is the prove that say
 whether or not...there is a..Hheaven, of certainty one must
 know that before the twelve hour there's the Eleven. One hour
 that you may have one make a choice." "How can I
 After the plight of man's innovocative way of the choices he
 chooses...the bad alway overshadow the good, because there
 where he finds himself at many times on the wrong roads, simply
 make a different at your next.....(???) Only the roads where light is
 found. Will you see...rejoice..but you must get it clearily understood.
 If God is in your life, it's there you'll find a way to be capture...."{with
 in the grip of his...Grace}" and you will dance a dance of rejoiceing..
 .."A Day Of Rapture"
 "A day of rapture, a need to refuse to be...Capture.."  Sister's and
 brother's...*christains and saints* mother's of those of the poor.
 We together makes-up the untruthfulness of life. "But (Jesus) the
 Holy-One....he-hee-heehe-comes to bring...."Redemption" and
 it just the beginning of the chapter. "I live in the darkness, show-me
 light my (lord) show me!!  "A day of Rapture."

Details | Prose Poetry | |


smooth mellow always sallow 
never foolish but continue to repeating
this EVOL  stay falling for my
devotion and lies 
forever trying to spell together 
fighting to stay alive.....

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Corner Room

In the space adjunct to a corner room; I left the light on and walked to the dark end of the hallway that was quiet.  Peace intruded upon the chaos that crept up on me loudly down there and swirling into mist I saw a figure.  A figure that once knew me, and I he, hurriedly I ran from the dark corner and leaped into the air, out the window, spiraling below.  Could I have been any more right, or was I dead?  

Never knew it, just walked on the spirits train and kept rolling up this funny white hill till we reached a large station in starry skies.  Much to my surprise those around me (yes they were here now) did not seem alarmed at the nature of it all.  Van Gogh himself had seemingly cut this little doorway into it and now we were there.  Accepting did not come easy for me, I stepped off the train and stared inwards to only get a view from the outside.  You see, the spectral ether that had become me was not yet cognizant and was unaware of my presence.

Ethereal scents and visions obscured everything and nothing came to me readily.  I was thinking that maybe, just maybe, this place was pansophy.  No one else seemed to know anything either though, so I just left and went back to the room with the light on, that lonely adjunct space to a corner room.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Here’s the thing
Peer pressure, isolation and laughter
Doesn’t magically make wrong right
Or change a lie into truth
Just because so many
Who are uninformed believe
Doesn’t turn fiction into fact
Rewriting history doesn’t make it true
No matter how many times you try
Doesn’t matter if good people or fools
Are leading the way
If it’s down the wrong path
Doesn’t matter if you say
It’s for the children and the poor
If it’s not the truth
For only one thing
Will set you free
We can twist a man’s words
Into whatever we want
When He’s not around
But when He once again
Sets foot to ground
Twisting is not so easily done
But we did so with good intentions
Will offer no excuse
In the face of the Truth
We too long ignored
So does it matter
If a few facts were off base
And the Truth
Just a bit embellished
I wonder who among us
Is bold enough to say
A little white lie
Isn’t really so
In the face of the Truth

Details | Prose Poetry | |



Parts of the stream became fish
and some of these fish returned to water
there are thoughts older than the universe
and some of these threads stretch forth forever
for these are the thoughts that reign down
from the seven spirits of God
many threads are traps, mazes, and prisons
the beasts do not choose their thoughts
they simply run the programs that they inherit
forced to accept and/or where given
while seekers posses the liberty to choose their input
and we all build and tune our channels
according to the perceptions that suite our ideas of reality
or focus on goals that feed some kind of hunger
planted or imagined and aching inside
and we all wonder why we are here
some kind of file for groups of thoughts
to be played out under the sun
until we are done and out of sight
and slipping down into the archives
as the universe keeps expanding
making the small even smaller
insignificant except for the sins
that put us under
as death marches on
the illusion that the physical is real
while dreams spur the spiritual
beings that live forever
may yours always find a good host
with memories intact
and blessed by the creator
while riding the threads of life
that find grace in the mighty kings eyes
that you might be called a child of God
just like Jesus the Christ
and for what will you live and die
glorify the innocent father of life
that you might win the eternal fight
for children shall fill the expanse
and there is a great purpose to fill
the duty of the angels to bring them light
those who live must learn to love and bring out
their hosts that die 
this challenge must begin at home
so build your faith as a rock
and a mountain high

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Families: The Most Important Social Unit

Families are the most important social unit in existence on earth today.  For it is out of the 
family that every worker, teacher, preacher, agnostic, librarian, construction worker, mason, 
mayor, Senator, Congressman, President, World Leader, mothers, fathers, and yes, every 
man and woman who fills an occupation (or not) grow to be the individual that they are.

Families are important because the beginning of all feelings originate right there in the 
home.  A newborn child may feel the love and affection of adorning parents.  Or, if the 
parent is a drug addict or mentally challenged, the child will have a different experience, an 
unpleasant one that no child deserves.  We are what we choose.  And our choices teach the 
young ones. 

There are a myriad of variables that influence an individuals feelings of self-worth, good or 
bad.  The family is the place where love and care are learned and shared.  Anger 
management, good or bad, is taught by example.  Manners, good or bad are taught or not…it 
depends.  Everything that a man or woman becomes has its roots in the family.

So, given this, let us all work together as parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, grandparents, 
nieces, nephews, cousins, and even friends to become the best possible individuals within our 
families that we can.  Let each of us strive for peace in the heart, the home, the city, the 
nations, the world.  Because we are all God’s children.  And we deserve the best possible 
life.  A little bit of heaven on earth can happen if everyone does their part to live, love, 
forgive, and enjoy what God has given them.

Written for the Rambling Poet's Narrative Contest.
Copyright 2-8-10  © Dane Smith-Johnsen

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Jehovah Witness

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

When silence seeps inside

When silence seeps inside me

When silence seeps inside me,
your countenance appears before my eyes.

When silence starts dancing in me,
you ooze in my heart
and caress my soul.

When silence transports me 
to the sky of consciousness,
you spring in my being.
Then we get merged 
not only in just each other,
rather we get merged 
with the whole cosmos,
pervading till 
the last threshold of the existence,
beyond the beyond,
within the within
of each and every bit of the existence.

The whole existence sparkles in eternity.
Fragrance of divinity evaporates
and fills the whole existence;
and we get established in 
nascent, ever fresh divinity.

Melody of silence culminates in bliss,
the divine, eternal and infinite bliss.

Thank You,
Swami Aaron
Author of: 
•	Ultimate Ecstasy
•	Beyond the Beyond
•	Quantum Jump into God
•	Lunatic Monologue
•	In Love with Linda
•	In Love with All Beautiful Women
•	Dancing on the Last Threshold of the Universe

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I wanna love for all

WHEN I WAS WONDERING IN THE GATE OF THE PARADISE IN THE EARTH… SOMEBODY WAS SHOUT AT MY EAR.... " WHOM YOU ARE????" WITH A SHOCK I SAID "I AM A HUMBLE HUMAN" "WHAT YOU WANT?????" THERE THE SHOUTED AGAIN I SAID " I WANNA LOVE...." AGAIN THE SHOUT IS THERE.. "WHAT KIND OF LOVE YOU WANNA????" " THERE IS FATHER'S LOVE, THERE IS MOTHER'S LOVE.. THERE IS SON'S LOVE, THERE IS DAUGHTER'S LOVE... THERE IS BROTHER'S LOVE, THERE IS SISTER'S LOVE... THERE IS HUSBAND'S LOVE. THERE IS WIFE'S LOVE... THERE IS LOVER'S LOVE, THERE IS MATE'S LOVE... THERE IS FIANCE'S LOVE, THERE IS FRIEND'S LOVE... THERE IS DOCTOR'S LOVE, THERE IS LAWYER'S LOVE..." I SAID "I WANNA LOVE FOR ALL...." " DO YOU HAVE ANY BUCKS FOR THE SAME????" THE SHOUT IS AGAIN.. I SAID MY WALLET IS EMPTY... "THEN YOU HAVE THE HATE WITH ME...AT FREE OF COST..." " IF YOU TAKE HATE FOR ALL.. YOU WILL GET FREE ONE GRAM OF LOVE..." “And you can use it your own way!” In the paradise in the earth The price of love going high and high.. And you can never afford the love.. In your life time, because the price will never comedown.... “ I look around to see the source of shout.. Then I see the devil of evil, the emperor of the paradise in the earth.. the Saataan the great, laughing at me in loud….

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 

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 | |

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 | |

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Backsliding - A Love Story

Once a pastor became bitter with God, 
	And had stumbled in his faith with the Lord
For ev’rything in the sky fell in him
	And evry’thing seems so heavy for him.
“Seems God has forsaken me, ” he said
	And thought that God is no longer with him
“Where are His promises? ” he asked himself
	“Did the power of the Lord failed? ” he thought.

He said, ”Oh, God! Why is this happening
	And why are these things falling down to me? 
Do you really love me, Lord of Highest? 
	Do you really care about me, Oh God? 
You’ve said in your word ‘I’ll never leave you...’
	Yet you’ve forgotten and forsaken me! 
You have said that you’ll never let me go
	And yet I can no longer feel your love! ”

But the Lord answered him in a vision; 
	In a divine presence, Christ spoke to him: 

“I’m fatally wounded here at the cross; 
	Yet I cannot die because I’m spotless.
So, dearly child, please give me all your sins
 	And I will replace it with righteousness.
Dearly child, please give me all your sorrows
	And I will replace it with blessedness.
Most of all, give me all your bitterness
	And, child, I will replace it with whole love! ”

So he went back to the love of the Lord
	Turned back to the protection of his God.

Here is the wisdom of the Sovereign
	Here’s the message most cannot understand: 
What is our right to complain to the Lord 
	When Jesus Christ never complained at all? 
So just “Trust to the LORD with all your heart
	And lean not in your own understanding.”
For God says, 'Be still and know that I'm God; '
        Be steadfast and remember that He's Great!

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Like Him

His love for her 
Was so deep 
And so strong 
That he would never 
Allow her 
To fall in love 
With a fool 
Like him

Details | Prose Poetry | |

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.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Your silence screams

Your silence screams,
collides against walls
and falls down shattered,
igniting my consciousness.

My soul is naked now,
witnessing its destitution,
the cruelty of your heart
and brutality of your soul.

You had left me lonely
in this vast endless universe
to starve, 
to die unheard and unnoticed.

My soul is bare now,
exposed to infinity.
Sky pours milky rays from all around;
stars twinkle and dance;
cool breeze starts a divine symphony.

Celebration of existence has started,
drenching my soul in its ambrosia
and making me celebrate my solitude.

The whole universe embraces me,
The whole existence makes me rest 
in its eternal lap.

Thank You,

Swami Aaron

Author of: 

•	Ultimate Ecstasy
•	Beyond the Beyond
•	Quantum Jump into God
•	Lunatic Monologue
•	In Love with Linda
•	In Love with All Beautiful Women
•	Dancing on the Last Threshold of the Universe

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Silence Prevails

It's been so long. Seven years are gone. 
You watched me grow up. Loving you. 
And I used to say,
Ten times a day,
I love you. 
Now, I'd rather let it pass. 
And let silence prevail between us.
There were nights. And I'd be awake.
Waiting for you to be home. 
Now, I'd rather you don't come
And hours we used to be on telephone...
I'd rather be alone. 
Conversations never ended, they never really do...
And yet the ones we have now, I wish we never do.
Did I just grow up?
Or may be you loved a different me.
Not that I like who I am now
But it's little I can do about. 
We go to a fancy dinner. Yet, when was the last time we laughed together?
Moments which seemed little, now just feel like forever.
Sitting here on my bed, I watch you,
Wear your coat and leave. 
You are the only one I ever have. Would you come back?
But I say nothing. Sometimes silence is a comfort.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sun Souling

Forgiveness pays
Brings poverty
To the rich heart society
Prayers console
A pagan life
So empty

Darkness rules
Bitter people
They wither
Like olden stool
Love has no school
But we teach hatred
Like lost lambs

Passion drives
Sometimes to death
If wisdom is ill health
No light
Wrong flights

Bulbs lighten the proud
Only but at night
Who to trust, a plight
Egos chase heartbeats
In inspired rage
Dungeon fights
An ensue
Of kindled mights
That bite

Look at the sun
Be its son
Shine to bless
Don’t be just a man

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Its always the bad that makes you realize the importance of good.
Its the wrong that you commit, teaches you what’s right.
Its the not so important which makes you feel the importance of others.
Loneliness is the best moment when you got nothing to lose and only to gain.
The best can only exist when you know what worst is.
People come and go, miss the good times you spent with them and be happy.
Don't ask for anything from god, thank him for what he has given you.
Don't call anything a mistake, call it an experience.
Don't regret anything, but learn from what happened.
People who criticize you the most, love you the most.
Don't hate anyone, hatred only proves that you care. Indifference is the worst you can do to a person.
Always look for the good in anyone or anything around you.
Smile if anyone makes fun of you, they do it because they love you. 
Try and understand why a particular person is behaving in a particular way, everyone has reasons.
There are more important issues in life than worrying about who Ted's wife would be in HIMYM.
But that shouldn't worry you, everything falls into place ultimately.
Don't try to design your life, let it design you.
Don't worry about which college you will go to, worry about the internal you have to submit tomorrow.
Believe in god, he is there to help you out when no one is there.
Try explaining to people how you feel rather than rebelling, it will take time, but they will understand.
When your loved one says that they will never talk to you again, don't take them seriously, you are too precious for them that they'll leave you.
Its only when you are hurt, makes you realize the power of healing.
Always keep exploring things, this universe is full of surprises, you might not know when you will discover something interesting.
Be happy. Keep smiling. If you are reading this. It means that you already have someone to take care of you..... (ME)!!

Details | Prose Poetry | |



Thoughts you will never know. 

There are some, who get to see their dreams
live them, know their reality.

There are those, who never see those dreams,
nor care to become a part of them. 

There are some, who's reason for living,
is to try and dissipate the essence of anther's dreams. 

There are those, who are souls that become,
a spot light, shinning brightly upon other,s dreams. 

There are some, who love nothing more than be a part, 
of positive dreams - other's and their own. 

There are those, who's lives, their dreams,
are not but nightmares in the light of their days. 

B.J."A" 2
September 27th 2009

Details | Prose Poetry | |


I am not related to tomorrows,
Severed from them
I am  related  to my yesterdays
The suffered realites
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 | |

Zen Buddhist Bird

A Buddhist bird flies 
Under the eyes 
Of winter’s sun 
As I watch his flight 
Across a lonely wintry sky 
Gazing up 
At his long, long flight south 

He diverts himself 
From the chilly northern wind 
A wind 
That the sun cannot warm 

He diverts himself 
With a single thought 
As only a Zen Buddhist bird might do 
And asks 

What is the sound 
Of one wing flapping? 
"the sound of one hand clapping"...(by J. D. Salinger) Thank you Leo

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Where one finds good, evil always preys!

From the very conception
We were born of good and evil -
Born from coitus pure and carnal,
But born angelic from inception - 
Or were we just morally neutral?

Just as children learn of good,
So do they learn of sinful ways.
Where one finds good, evil always preys -
"It is the ying yang of livelihood", 
To quote Jenny Palu's phrase.

Its the path of least resistance
That so oft lures the children near, 
And into sin which they'll revere.
Morals can be such a hinderance!
And good's path can be so austere! 

Evil is the way of the beast - 
And while man is certainly a mammal,
He shouldn't act like an animal!
And if he does, let him be fleeced,
and Remembered as infernal!

An animal must kill to live,
And acts carnal instinctually.
But this differs from man's folly -
Survival is an animal's motive,
But man murders demonically!

Consider that many murderous men
Used violence to right a wrong,
And often they are praised in song,
At least by there own countrymen!
Who share their sense of right and wrong.

But while a murderous Saint
Is beloved in one nation,
Others don't share his sense of salvation!
No, they feel the so-called Saint's taint
In his godly devastation

Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Brother

You left my brother
Came back a man
Should hear our proud father
Speak of you
How you’ve done him
And momma proud
Sister Jane and Katherine
Down the block
Never seem to have anything
But you to talk about
Oh if you only knew the loving
All the girls around here
Say you’ve missed
It’s a good bet
You’d never have left
But leave you did
Nothing can change that now
In a way it’s good to know
Exactly where you are
We need never again worry
If that old truck of yours broke down
Leaving you to walk home in the rain
It’s a good thing really
Now we can all get some sleep
Granted, not as much as you
But we will in our due time
Just want you to know
These tags of yours
Will never leave my neck
You, will never leave my heart
For no matter why you left
Or how you came back
You still are
And will always be
My brother

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lost Wallet

My wallet sits somewhere- naked and fat on a lonely bench. It’s supple black skin - 
an ebony eye-candy. It is alone and hungry, it eats and eats and is never satisfied. 
Good riddance! The heavy beast is gone and yet I have lost nothing! Nothing but a 
myriad of colourful paper, plastic and handsome metals, what use are they to me? 
Just look at it, it looks benign, peaceful and harmless and yet people fight for its 
contents; they lie, cheat and steal. Go ahead take it! Open Pandora’s box and you 
will find nothing. If you are looking for happiness or enlightenment you will not find 
it. My wallet is not heavy because God is in it, but rather Satan. My wallet is lost; do 
you really want to take it?

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ole Shoebox

Hmm, a photograph
Two quarters and a dime
A half written note
A set of tags
A few keys and credit cards
Driver’s license and I.D.
Surprising what fits
In an ole shoebox
A few clothes thrown together
Some well pressed
An old pair of sneakers
And well polished shoes
A mind full of memories
A room full of emptiness
No doubt the room
Will be filled again
The box handed over
And the memories lived
I’d just rather not 
Be holding these tags
Through the silenced laughter
Echoes the days we knew
How with hair on fire
How high we flew
Larger than life
Now within my hands
In what I hold
So much more is told
Than a few items in a box
For what lies within
Is a life well lived
Cut much too short
For a greater cause
So surprising it is
What fits in an ole shoebox
I’d just rather not 
Be holding these tags
And damn my friend
I so want you back

Details | Prose Poetry | |

In the Face of Voids

Mendacities wear smiles made of porcelain with teeth more the stature of fangs which drip poison of an end to which I find myself entrusted; shattering is for the mirrors, and being is the soul’s likeness, subject to the inevitability of atrophy, as even the Universe’s own heart must cease its song, giving way to the passing of each beat, the dying of each note, and the falling from grace of a man’s honor.  Those feathers on the floor belonged to an angel once, and now they are but quills used to strike names from the Book of Life and rewrite them into the Book of the Dead, made to dance upon the leaf by the hands of he who would see himself departed before he finds the one thing that will bring him light; one atom seeking another, complete annihilation, oblivion, shards of reality loosed from the cosmos, dustings on the floor, snowflakes on the leaves, glints of history within each eye which chose to see, raindrops alighting the face, a butterfly flapping its wings and giving voice to chaos theories as the tsunami washes away all traces of me within myself and brings to the shore the you and the I.  Can you hear it?  Rising from this hell are the cries of mutiny, the roars made of words that proclaim “Never shall we give credence to the verdicts of the Fates, that we shall be islands in the vastness of the sea!”  And never shall we be alone in the face of voids.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Who Needs You Now

You have fought for your country
You have heard the calls of death
And felt the loss of blood
And now, no one hears or cares
About the tears you cry
You fought a fools war
Inspired by heroic deeds
Majestic words of honor and fame
From people who never knew your name
Many were those who fled
And endured behind their protest signs
But you, you fought the war
Lost your limbs and gained insight into reality
It was you who came back less than human
And now you stand alone at night
Lost and forgotten men
Tell me, tell me who needs you now
Where are the people
Who gave you hell
Where are the people
Who cried to bring you home
Who marched for your life
While you marched to your death
Where are the people
Who loved you when it was the thing to do
And fought for your cause
While you wondered what it was
As you watched your buddies fade away
Heroes and medals
Tell me, what does it all mean
Now that you stand alone at night
Lost and forgotten men
And tell me, tell me, who needs you now
Now that our memory fades
Of those who served and the reasons why
All we seem to do
Is stand aside and watch them die
And tell me Brothers
Who needs you now?

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Jesuits Ate My Basketball

The north wind blows cold, and the snows fold over like blankets in the closet.  Spirals
spin in acrimonious dances, prancing madly at unheard music.  The tune is soon gone and,
as the sun rises, it trips, breaking dawn.  Sweeping pieces of the fractured day, this
display of frozen water glistens brightly, and dims nightly.  The wrong song is sung,
again, but rightly.  In the East I wonder what magic holds sway, what words they say to
welcome strangers into their folded blankets.  

Time is chemistry and physics, spanning consciousness, but slips away like fishes. 
Delicious moments linger in memory, gone but not forgotten, the sweetness tastes a little
rotten, I'm afraid.  Tears do not forestall the thunder that always comes behind the
light.  I do not fight to see, or hear, or know, but slowly come to understand that which
is no more.  This floor supports my tired feet, becomes a bed for back and head, and now I
must depart.

I'm dead, I think, but still I write, this word, and this one will not stop.  The cold,
again, is coming now; it burns my bones to ash, until no trace remains.  Will she see my
face in snow drifts, bed sheets, and shoe laces?  I long for lingering embraces but arms
slip through me, ghostly, and listen to my beating heart.

Will this missive find kind eyes to see its meaning, to see its lies, to see its preening
self-adulation?  Will it speak to a soul that listens?  I hope so.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Adulteress's missing thread

missing threads
She looks outside. The pale moonlight has fallen across the tributary, illusory moonshine,
like an intimate emission, now that the urgency is gone, meaningless. 
She looks inside. The sprawled bed sheet of flesh shines in luminous darkness which she
thinks she is. 
Remember the worth and compare with leaving behind the cords, one son and a lethargic
clergy who divides his self between interpreting the God and being her husband. 
She remembers the cats, the weekend cooking classes and small garden of oriental roses.
The pale moon is always hiding behind the clouds when you need it. The clarity is a burnt
out butt of the cigarette learning to jump overboard. She waves away the smoke. She looks,
once more, inside and outside.  
=© 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 | |

Choices Chose

Men and the way we choose
To live our lives
With honor and deeds
Or mistrust and lies
Do we surround ourselves with truth
Build a foundation with roots
Or claim the mantra
With our misdeeds
It’s only us we hurt
Do we believe
When we walk in another’s eye
We’d best watch where we step
Or merely tread
Where only we can see
Out there lie
Many choices, many paths
We can plant good seed
Or live within our greed
We can walk through mud
And shed our blood
To lend a helping hand
Or we can walk around
Ignore the cries of what’s right
Shut our ears to the wrong
Make the claim
We stand on hallowed ground
But when it ends
And all comes down
All men choose
Where they stand
It’s a choice we make
Of our own
Dependent on
The heart within
What it bleeds out
When it comes face to face
With choices made
Along the path
We choose to walk

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Without The Box

So, there you are
Returned from fighting another mans war
Heard you’re quite the hero
Good for you my friend
Twenty years young
Couldn’t wait
To kick some terrorist ass
And so you did
So very well indeed I hear
Now you’re back
Nothing more to kick
What are you to do with yourself
Lying there as you are
Look at all of us here
To welcome you back
Can you not hear the joy
Can you not see the happiness
Or is it all hidden behind the tears
So here you are returned
In a flawless uniform
Lying there all smug and confident
With a peaceful look
Here you are returned
Fresh off the plane
In a nice tight package
Here you are returned
To never leave again
Good to have you back my friend
Only wish it could have been
Without the box

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Poet

A bright morning sun reflected off the everlasting hills and over blushing flowers,
Then onto whispering trees heavy with fruit, over purling steams and dimpled lakes,
A poet, dipping his pen into the ink that writes of pure images in the urn of truth,
Writing besotted letters, of imperishable brightness, weighing immortality of nature.

Having the wisdom of nature suited to the right regulation and adjustment to changes,
That exists in man to understand the beauties of nature not just on a summer morning,
Nights are spent in the midnight oil chasing words to express the beauty we all see,
Words to highlight understanding to enhance desires and refinements to see as the poet.

Revelations not beyond reach to bring beautiful scenes into homes the true philosophy,
When philosophy acknowledges the unlimited range of its sphere bringing light to all,
Whose posy has charmed the fancy and whose works have enriched the world of letters,
Many poets whose eloquence has astonished even only a few, the researches are reward.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Brief life-story of God

In the beginning
Owing to extreme gravitational force 
God’s heart was tending to squeeze more and more
But mass and space of anything can’t be nil
As a result an outward force was created
This inward and outward force
Is the cause of heartbeat of God
That made the sound “Allah” repeatedly.

Suddenly God thought what is Allah
And God began to know Himself.
At one point of time God thought 
It would be better if He had a lover
So He wanted to split Himself into two pieces
And it turned Himself into tiniest particles and His heart
And that was God’s one and only mistake
For which He felt the unignorable physical pain 
Then the tiniest particles gathered around God’s heart
Because of gravitational force
Thus God’s body looked like the same again
But with more knowledge, power and potentiality.

Even God forgets some things
Because there’s not enough space 
To store God’s memory of infinite time.
That’s one of the reasons why
God’s pen has written down every important thing.
In the end
The righteous will be in paradise 
And the sinners will be in hell
Then after zillions of long years
Same happening will begin to repeat itself
In paradise, hell and everywhere else in the universe
But none of us will remember the days that will repeat
So every single day will seem brand new day to us.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

May Soon Be

Used to drive by in my car
Shake my head, look the other way
Used to think get a job
And get off the street
And now, it’s a place
I may soon be
Used to walk on by
Or cross to the other side
Thinking they had no pride
Now it’s a place
I may soon be
Heard all the stories
Of rich men falling
Being lost and forgotten
Now it’s a place
I may soon be
Used to scoff at their college education
The thought they ever had a mansion
Business suits and cars
Now it’s a place
I may soon be
I’m not there yet
But I can see it near
I see those storm clouds
Searching for me
I can see my efforts
Being for naught
And soon being caught
I can see losing the choice
Of what to keep
Being in far too deep
And looking through the car window
From the other side
Funny how perspective changes
Depending on where you stand
How quickly you begin to understand
When it’s a place
You may soon be

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Philosophy

A Philosophy

Life lived, is but taking hold of all the fleeting moments,
it's reality offers, and making them ours for as long as they last.
When they have run their coarse, given all they posses, dissipate,
fade into the books of history, we must give thanks, be grateful,
cherish every nuance, every beam, every ray, every wave length,
- all that gave them life and life meaning. -
Remember, give for as long as it takes and then move on
regardless of the rain that surely will fall
regardless of the pain that surely will pall

B.J."A" 2
October 22nd 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |


                                             Time passes on
                                     new day begins its dawn
                                   dreaming better brighter life
                                        with afresh aspirations

                                        Decades after decades...
                                          millennium arises on
                              paving the ways for next generation
                                             new babies born

                                            New becomes old
                                      old is torn or demolished
                                           Foresight go ahead
                                           for new construction

                                          Till today what is got
                                          near to nothing at all
                                           Treasures are huge
                                                in this World
                                              Time passes on..........

Details | Prose Poetry | |

believe in the magick

Believe in the magick in the power of each thought. For you are like a lovely 
flower, growing in a pot. You can do it, whatever goals you have ever sought 
and you can grow your roots and widen yourself to a great big plot. And don't 
let yourself be put on the spot. And whatever effort goes out is the same as 
you have brought. Takes time sometimes, don't get distraught. It'll be turned 
toward you every deed or need you've ever bought. Smile,you'll be happier, 
that's what I've learned and I've taught.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Met Jesus Yesterday

I met Jesus yesterday
Didn’t recognize His face
There was no long hair or beard
Just a woman who said
Looks like you could use a helping hand
I met Jesus yesterday
Didn’t know who He was
There were no miracles of wine
Just an old man
Who shared his time
I met Jesus yesterday
Could have sworn I was all alone
No crowds were gathered there
Just a child who seemed to care
Offered up his bike
So I wouldn’t have to walk alone
I met Jesus yesterday
Never even said a prayer
There were no wounds on his hands
Just the scars of many years
Written all across his face
As the broken man gave me hope
I met Jesus yesterday
With no sermons on the mount
You were the only one I saw
As you gave your love to me
Promised there you’d always be
I keep meeting Jesus
Though I never see His face
It’s hard to understand
How this Man I never see
Keeps showing up
Wherever there is love
A helping hand, shared time
An offer not to walk alone
A caring heart
Or whatever I may need
It just seems I always say....
I met Jesus yesterday

Details | Prose Poetry | |


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 | |


Really? Hmmm,
So what you’re saying
Is covering up truth
With well intentioned
Though misguided facts
Changes a lie from what it is
By slapping goodwill
On the face of deception
Adding guilt to questions asked
Throwing in things seemingly good
That we all should do
Changes a lie from what it is
So by disregarding the truth
Saying it’s the spirit that counts
Makes following and joining the lie
An accepted worldwide truth
By adding a name who often spoke
Of the origin of lies
We find changing His words
Acceptable in our eyes
For after all, we do so for Him
Wonder what He himself
Would say and think
Of how we rationalize
Changing a lie from what it is

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Prose Mine Prys

‘At play with words’

Cork thine eyes 
Cloaking lucent verbose halls 
Surely binding shutting tight 

Cork thine eyes 
Clutching goblet sipping falls 
Drunk seduction bending sight 

Prose mine prys 
Gather up my scrolling drawls 
Paging through the spite 

Prose mine prys 
Splitting metaphors with mauls 
Swindle word codle the blight 

This poem explained

Shut your eyes 
Shade your bright and wordy thoughts 
Absolutely shut off your mind 

Shut your eyes 
Drink from the fountain of lies of the rich 
Allow yourself to be seduced and become blind 

My ordinary words chip away 
Read what I have written 
They are memorable moments of contempt 

My ordinary words chip away 
I chop up what I write with metaphors 
The negative meanings of what I write deceives with tenderness


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Tradegy and Disaster

There’s a thing about disaster
Makes us act as we should
All working together
Differences aside
Something about when tragedy strikes
We all pull together
Thousands become one
Funny how hate fades away
And love doesn’t hide
Hands are reached
And arms are held
Pasts are forgotten
Futures are gleaned
Comforts are given
And for such a short time
We go on freely living
Suppose the trick is
When all is repaired
Not forgetting the short time
As one we all cared
Take it back to our daily lives
Carry on with the trust
We all found a must
To make it through
Tragedies and disasters
That came calling on us
Oh if only our day to day
Were looked upon
As tragedy and disaster
So that hand in hand
And back to back
We put differences aside
And love didn’t feel 
Like it had to hide
Until tragedies and disaster
Come calling on us

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Decide What To Do

Look at the flood
Where waters run deep
Look at the lost faith
So hard to keep
Death and destruction
And everything gone
No words are needed
Just listen and watch
And decide what to do
Just listen and watch
And decide what to do
Colors become blind
When we’re all of one mind
Waters wash away riches
And unite the poor
Business suits and cut offs
Take water the same
When we’re up to our necks
We’re all of one name
So hand in hand we embrace
To make a stand
Working together to strive
To clear out the damage
Turn back the waters
And once again live
Flood waters run deep
No words are needed
Just listen and watch
And decide what to do
There’s a simple strength here
That won’t be defeated
It’s one that’s united
In me and in you
So as I take your hand
Here is mine
Together we’ll decide
Just what to do
While making our stand
No words are needed
Just listen and watch
And decide what to do

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 | |

God and the Fantastic Four

Prophet Mohammad is the first Leader of the Universe
He is as dear to God as His heart and the Best Friend of God
He is the symbol of God’s innermost layer of glow
That is the glow of kindness, the white and silver glow
This glow has maximum density and minimum shininess
That’s why we’ll be able to stare at God’s body. 

Prophet Jesus is the second Leader of the Universe 
He is called the Soul of God because he is so dear to Him. 
He is like the Son of God and is the symbol of God’s body and peace.

God has seventy thousand layers of His glow
Each layer has a different color and characteristic 
Prophet Mary is like the Beauty and Purity of God
She is the third Leader of the Universe 
And she is the symbol of God Herself.

Imam Mehedi is the fourth Leader of the Universe 
And he is the symbol of God’s outermost layer of glow
That is the glow of pride, the yellow and golden glow
This glow has minimum density and maximum shininess.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Your Great " I AM "

And there you stand
with your hands on hips
telling the world why.
You liar; misguided fool.
Part of you is lost
suppressed in infinite
to be found with your great I AM;
free of distortion.
You will feel your pure pain;
the lot you were given.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Nobody's Blame

I find it funny how we each blame
Another for our woes
Don’t quite understand
How it can be everybody’s fault
And nobody’s blame
How can anybody be right
If everybody’s wrong
If it weren’t for George
If it wasn’t for Bill
If it weren’t for Ron
And what the hell
Was Jimmy about
We should’ve listened to Ted
And forgot about Dick
Now today we hear it’s them to blame
Countered with
It’s their own damn fault
We hear so many promises made
Yet so few are kept
We see executives paid
For jobs well done
That were never done at all
While those around them fall
And yet, nobody’s to blame
But the other guy
Just how was it
And when did it come to pass
That mirrors looked into
Quit reflecting back what is there
To those looking in
When was it common sense left
And a man looking himself in the eye
No longer mattered
Just so long 
As standing near by
Was someone else to blame

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lovers Of a Hundred Decades Ago

They had dreamed. They had gone so far with their dreams. Yet, so deprived they 
Like them, I have become a denizen of the desert, ever since I laid my eyes on 
Like them, lovers of a hundred decades ago, I was destined to wake up everyday 
in a new shelter, a new tent.
What would my shelter be anyway, that ceases lamentation.
So far from here I have gone. An inhabitant of the moon perhaps have I become, 
ever since your love was seared in me; ever since I started missing you like 
the desert misses the rain, I have been unutterably agonized.
Now, it has been a month, an eternity shall I say.
Now, to believe that you’ll be back, it would take me as many trials as there are 
miles between the moon and us. “Us”.  What a soothing word. As soothing as it 
is for you to realize that a series of flaws have been nothing but a lame 
nightmare, and as queenly as stereotype works.
Like the sand under the misty skies that I have seen from my window, scattered 
grains either cemented or carried away, is my salvation.
Waiting to be held closely, with cuddles and a sweet lullaby, the immutable child 
amid my exhaustions cries in grief…
…and when it rained, I had to believe…at least to recall the hope that I had lost.
Yes, today it rained, amidst the scalding and the warmth, it came; I believe it did, 
yet I still don’t know whether it was sent to heal the pain, or cut the line and cease 
the chain.

Jessica J. Hanna
November 2006

Details | Prose Poetry | |

It Just Seems

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Uncle Charlie's Friend

I was barely ten years old
When I heard the news
Couldn’t quite comprehend
Why Marshall wasn’t coming home
People said he was the best of them
My Uncle Charlie’s friend
I can remember my Ma and Pop
All their friends crying out loud
The whole town coming out
For a man everybody loved
Sent off to a foreign land
Never coming home again
When Uncle Charlie came home
Used to sit on the porch
He and his drums playing a song
Damning the Viet Cong in Marshall’s name
Used to look at him through the smoke
Watch him shake, the blunt of people’s jokes
Seemed to have an unquenchable thirst
Twenty-two going past a hundred
What it was I never understood
Turned him into a piece of wood
Thirty years gone by
Seem to have a different view
As I look back on things I never knew
I see my Uncle Charlie’s friend in a different light
No longer just a name
As I’ve watched some of my friends go
It’s dawned on me why the whole town turned out
For Uncle Charlie’s friend
The smoke has cleared, the thirst is gone
Only the echos of drums remain
On the porch of a house no longer there
My memory knows him as Marshall
What’s left of the town
Speaks of him as the best of them
Though they haven’t thought of him in years
The way and why he died, they haven’t forgotten
It’s only now I comprehend, the pain and grief
My Pa’s brother and the whole town felt
For my Uncle Charlie’s, my Uncle Charlie’s friend.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

One Week

One Week ?

Could be all there is?
Maybe a day, an hour, just a moment,
then what was, no longer is,
what could have been, never can be.
All becomes lost to the fears,
the uncertainties,
one harbours inside their head,
the mind of prejudices.

 You know my China Doll ?, at this stage of life one only wants to fill their remaining days, on this plane, with all the pleasures - be they cerebral, emotional, physical, intellectual or all -that living this life has to offer, to experience them to the fullest the mind, the body is capable of - be they a kind heart, a giving soul, a free spirit, a warm, beautiful smile, a pretty face, a shared moment, a passionate kiss, the beauty of making love to a woman and what it brings to a decaying body and the twilight of ones mind - a beautiful ending to ones days, a glorious sun set to accompany one on their long, never ending journey as they change coarse within life's flow, put on a new coat of many colours - the rainbow of life or a suit of armour - the dark shadows that keep one from seeing the light, letting it take hold of them, permeate every fiber, every atom, every molecule of their being .
 I see you as an inspiration and yet I feel that you tend to curtail it's progress as you keep much, I do believe, locked inside and yet let be touched, parts of all that make up the beauty I see, I have felt and do feel and do believe is the true beauty in you. You have taken this old man to heights that a man of age should not attempt to climb, but for you it seems, there is no mountain to high or ocean to deep to stop me from reaching up or reaching down to take hold of you and ride every wave life, with wild abandon, throws upon the shores beneath our feet .
 I know that you try - with some restraint - to step out side of that which has been and is the force that keeps you closed, afraid to step beyond that which you feel comfortable with, in order to experience some things you seem to have an aversion to .
 They say - whom ever they are - that life is to short and let me confirm that, it is !!!!!, and I realize Xiao Ling, that a lot of what I sing, write, say is far from what you want to hear or see from me, nor is it what you want to accept from me .

 BILL . 

Know Xiao Ling,
no matter what
to the table you bring,
with open heart I will sing
a sad and happy song.

With me, I hope you come along,
not be so strong
in your restraint,
with your resolve
to never .

B. J. "A" 2
May 13th 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Belief, what a strange and silly thing
Changing from day to day
Blown about on the wind
Like the chirping that birds sing
Changing like the weather
From rain to sun to fear
Brought on by the darken clouds
Of a coming storm
Changing like a beach front
With each succeeding tide
Like a canyons wall
From the rivers flow
So many beliefs 
Seem to come and go
Depending on our travels
And where we are in life
Still it seems from time to time
Something needs to stick
A core needs to be established
Held not within our hand
By a fruitless grip
But deep within our heart
So when it’s time to make a stand
Our feet and heart hold firm
To what we know is right
Oh sure this view seems out of date
Especially in today’s new light
But as time has always shown
Even in the darkest dark
Knowing what you believe
Gets you through the night
And knowing what you believe in
Enables you to stand
Instead of falling like a fool

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lessons taught

Long ago on rolling hills
And endless plains
Stood men who fought
For a cause beyond common understanding
Bound together by integrity
They persevered 
When odds gave no chance
Led by a man
Whose name was always half whispered
They made a vow
From that day forth
To stand as one
For in so doing
They found the strength
Lost on thousands
And won the day
Freedom they earned
From the blood they sacrificed
In defending a land
Not all their own
Thus were legends made
Respect of generations earned
Handed down from father to son
Mother to daughter
For all to hear 
How strength is found
When standing as one
Throughout history
From the example made
Nations have been born
To see freedom reign
Overcoming such odds
That would defeat weaker men
All brought forth long ago
On rolling hills and endless plains
In the lessons taught
By men who stood as one and persevered
For a cause far beyond
Common understanding of mortal men

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Beauty, like most things, is subjective

Beauty, like most things, is subjective
Some people prefer a statue, marble, 
Crafted at the enervation of the sculptor.
Others prefer smoke, thin and intangible, 
Dancing in plumes to an atonal rhythm.
Call me crazy, but I prefer neither. 
I admire you in your skin in clothes 
Shorts and a tank-top, as you move
So exotically your hips to a drum in time.
However I don't find beauty in arousal, 
Yet in a connection seen in eyes, 
Held in hands, and know, I find
Large amounts of beauty in you
I could sit with you and die. 
As we all do now, sad and alone, yet 
As soon as proximity is reached
Between us, dying becomes more.  
It becomes the tobacco between
The fire at a cigarettes tip, 
And the filter, that sweet sin 
That has so enticed you before.
However, that's just me,
As beauty is subjective.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Falling leaves trace ancestral tracks in empty air
and their whispers echo secrets, ancient; 
lost to most mortal ears, suppressed,
Stifled as techno-shrieks from MP3 quicksand, 
cell-mania and industry drums
drive them into near oblivion.

Soot-browned, crispy hairs fall upon Earths’ shoulders;
dancing on Fall winds, singing messages loud and clear;
we must rest now, hibernate in her womb.

“Child, when ice-time comes, her steely cold grip will crush us in our slumber.
Gaia, like the phoenix reborn,
renews in sleep her life power;
pours us into leaf-molds.
Once again; death is some mortal illusion, 
but most never hear our whispers.”

Listen with your soul, 
ears never truly hear these whispers.
Selective hearing is mankind’s’ undoing.

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Fires of snow that burn and chill
Equilibrium of mind and soul
Living in harmonic peace
Spirit thrashing and wanting release
No longer will be held still
Cage opens, let it fly
Watching as it passes by
Another life come and gone
No reason and no rhyme
A blink in the eye of forever
A blink lasting a lifetime
Only less, almost like it was never
What a shame, what a crime
Couldn't find the time
Not enough time - Never enough time
Another blink, another soul
Where did all the time go?

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Richer then poorest peasant more powerful then the wealthiest king. I consider myself luckier than anything. And, because of that I wouldn't trade any of my wonderful friends for anything. Through thick and thin they have been there through it all, never failing in their support. Giving guidance and advice wether it was welcome or not. So no matter the reason I would accept no else in the world but my wonderful friends.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

In the March of Dreams this way . . . once more, never before

I’m marching in the dream 
It’s raining heavily and the sky is dark and flashed with electric white
Silver shards gleam down from the sky
To shatter the still and calm I love so of the rain
In the dream I am young as I am now
Full of life
Strong and full of grace like never before this moment
When I dream within dream of you standing there in the sunlight
Of the sighing of day light waning beneath the whisper of night cascading 
Like the dreams of yesteryear come once more to pass this way

Dreaming in the dream of another dream born of memories long and old
Lost again am I amid the rains pelting my skin briskly, warmly
Like your voice in my ear of when we spoke to clutch each other fast
To hold one another close within the span of memories
Needing to feel alive and whole and with one another
For the space between us still of the yawning days and nights falling softly
Lingering here and then as we lay spent, smiling, laughing in the echoes of pleasure
And I march on; I march on toward the East where I see you standing 
With your head held high and arms holding out to me
A bright smile somehow shyly kept across your beautiful face like a river
Fresh from the mountain of days reborn in the fullness of spring

And so I dream as I march under the raining sky and shatter spikes of silver gleaming
Of when and where I stand before you with a quiet smile of wars fought and won
When across these shoulders I carried the sum of world’s worries, 
Pains and lamentations deep and plenty folded 
Like the crystal I gazed within your eyes
When whisper of meaning deep as the sky unfolded within the stars above us now
Did you from across the chasm between 
And still under the thunder of time and when I hear you so close
I dare to reach out and stroke your face with a feather light breath
From jaw line to lips so sweet I weep in the pleasure of knowing you deeply
But I am marching, still marching and into the East I find myself cast
In dream and still more I dream as I dreamed and dreamt never of you before this
For never having dared to dream such as you, 
Could not for never seen such before have I . . .

I am marching in the dream
Under the raining sky that kisses my body briskly
Like the dream of your voice in my ear in the birth of day
When wrapped within you I did, was, and will be, I am to be once more
For the first

I am dreaming and in the dream I am marching
Marching under the silver gleaming sky I march

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Angels

Like God’s body
The angel is cluster of tiniest particles 
Clinging together because of gravity
They are like a dot to God’s body in size.
The angels who have two pairs of wings 
Are under Sidratul Muntaha Tree in paradise
And are circling around God’s Throne 
The angels who have four pairs of wings 
Are the Sufra angels and angels of God’s court 
All other angels have three pairs of wings
Angels are something like the super-strings
They can take almost any form and size
Angels can eat and drink but they do not do that
Angels have life partner as well but they do not enjoy sex  
Angels are so tiny they can use the density of sky to fly
Usually the chief four angels carry God’s Throne
But on doomsday eight angels will carry it.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Yesterday evening near sunset
I saw God's eye peeking at it's creation.
I saw the eye in the saddle-back of
my high valley home.

The eye was gigantic and made of deep dark monsoon clouds
sweeping an eyelid across two mountain peaks.
The setting sun was the shape of a pupil,
blazing forth from eternity into our NOW.

In that eye I saw...the God 
was pleased with all of it's creations,
even those we humans don't yet understand.
The multitudes of creatures that crawl,
walk, trot, fly, slink and buzz included.

The gaze lasted long into the evening
as if the earth was soothing to the soul.
The sun, then set and earth drifted off  to sleep
to dream of other sunsets on other worlds.

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 | |

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-

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
forgot what
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 | |

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 | |

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Navriss in the still

I closed my eyes to dream and my dreams were empty
The Angel, the stairway, the stars, the star
They were all gone
It’s been so long since I felt her presence in my life
In dream where once I liked to go for solace
I find a void

In the face of such silence
What am I supposed to do?
I reach out into the wellspring and find it empty
There’s nothing left and still
Still I know something secret
Something sweet

Silence has fallen across my dreams like a blanket of snow
Somehow cold and desolate in the quiet
I know that I am supposed to feel despair
Because I am alone
Bereft of my guide, has fled me
But there is no despair
There is nothing

I am alone in the silence of my dreams

I know

I guess in the absence of despair
I am just left to wonder
Just left to wonder

How come I know it is silent at all? 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

And God Takes The Blame

Another senseless death
And God takes the blame
A young girl is stabbed
Left to bleed and die
In the arms of her love
While another curses His name
Another bomb explodes
And God takes the blame
Innocents are left to die
As villains take pride
Beaming in their glory
While heartaches curse His name
Another drunk walks away
And God takes the blame
A life in a tangled heap
Slips away lost
As a sober drunk asks what happened
While loved ones left behind
Sadly curse His name
So much loss and tragedy
While God takes the blame
People instantly cry out
Why’d You let this happen
As their hearts begin to doubt
Sadly the true villain walks
While so many curse His name
Not realizing while God takes the blame
The god of this world scoffs
Claiming victory in the pain he’s caused
Taking glee in misplaced blame
While unnoticed he walks on
Hidden behind his veil
Enthralled in his little game
But hidden from his view
Time is nearly at hand
For God to make a stand
And all the things written long ago
Are about to truly be
For God is about to clear his name
Of all the misplaced blame

Details | Prose Poetry | |


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
search: POEWHIT


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Virtue and Sin

Knowledge is the path that leads to virtue.
Ignorance is the path that leads to sin.

Hope and expectation enhance patience.
Greed is responsible for so many miseries.

Arrogance begets hatred.
Modesty attracts others.

Forgiveness helps to end conflict.
Revenge sows the seed of further retaliation.

Truthfulness makes things crystal clear.
Dishonesty is the way to deprive others.

Jealousy destroys peace of mind.
Kindness brings forth peace.

Sympathy teaches to sacrifice.
Selfishness destroys friendship.

Love is the key to unity
Hate causes war and strife.

So keep the world inside your mind 
As if it’s your only child.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


  1) ..Every time... I take a breath.
2) ..I think about... the trees.

3) ..Knowing that....deep down inside.
4) ..Each breath you longer can I clean. 

5) ..Is it True...your love I sought. 
6) ..When on my skin... you carve your heart. 

7) ..When here...upon my limbs birds nest. 
8) ..While knowing that each root...I need.

9) ..If leaves are poem makes.
10) ..And making strip my branch.

11) ..Where then will you..hang your swing.
12) ..Looking up..why do I see..a heaven without trees. 

Is It Poetry 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

On a Scale Of One to Ten

Do decimels count?  Exponentials?
Remember this crazy dude, I'll surely only get crazier as I age.
And I'm doing that fast.
Got some catchin' up to do.
The soap opera around me grows ever more bizarre.
And worrisome.
And I don't mean me. 
I spent the night over a cousin's house.
Didn't realize the mistake till too late.
It's hard to be pleasant company when you feel withered and adrift.
Read a complete book last night, then two children's books.
Well, at least I read the pictures.
My doctor told me don't buy any green bananas.
Cardiologist not so subtle, but I got a sense of humor.
I love to spar mentally with those who take me for as dumb as I act.
Usually they don't even know it.
I'm likely the only person in the world with a giant console organ in the middle of 
his tiny kitchen....barely open the refrigerator... whose 7 watt bulb is brighter than 
me often.  
Rosie worried, knew not what happened to me. 
My troubles pale next to hers.  I don't know how she deals with it all.
Vicodins, aspirins, voodoo spells all as useless as M&M's to a diabetic.
Pain relief or sleep?  I chose pain relief, then realized if I was asleep, I would't be 
aware of pain.  Now I know a few things I never had to ponder.  
Someday all will be sunny again...or not, I haven't a clue.  Enjoy your turkey 
sandwiches.  tom

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Cookie Cutter Images

The new age believers talk about us being ourselves,
Yet, when we are the people we truly want to be,
The Elitists create controversy by ripping uniqueness
to threads,

Cookie Cutter Images are what is expected in this society,
Women who parade around as if they are Stepford Wives,
Men who believe that their only place is the kitchen,
A utopia pleasing to the eyes of Leftists spies,
Women are ostracized if they have a mind of their
Or God forbid, if they are caught witchin',
They become overwhelmed by judgemental frowns,

Perfection is an impossibe task to attain,
Since the Creator wanted us to be ourselves
filled with errors and mistakes,
Regardless if we cause disdain,
Sometimes it is the only way that
human beings develop change,
or are able to get through life without
become insane.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Obsessions in Vain

I like to think I know every thing, but I don't; that's obvious. I wonder if it would take a 
scholar to see that I am making the same mistakes every day? Do you see this? 
Blasphemy! Sometimes I cannot believe my ability to twist the truth around lies and end up 
with something I like to call a friendship. Does it mean nothing to me? Perhaps I could move 
a thousand miles away and forget your face as if I hadn't spent hundreds of hours laughing 
upon your childish mannerisms. I love to laugh. It is difficult, however, for me to distinguish 
the empty guffaw and the heart-warming kind of giggle that makes me want to live a simpler 
life. You know what I'm talking about. You know that there's something missing. You can't 
put a finger on it. The grass is greener on the other side, of course, but did you realize the 
season would never change?

Details | Prose Poetry | |

And I despise this house

The grasp is choking, hard, and cruel 
	The roofs are limited yet wide. I am the servant to this place. 
Her burning gaze sears through my eyes. 
“You shall despise this house.” 

Never to return to here. This foundation built on itself. 
 Raised to sky with other hands, with elements of life. 
Another breath - two more to hear, a shriek that is my name 
And to the gaze I whisper softly, 
“I shall despise this house.” 

I am the builder of this place. 
With arms held up by strings. My eyes waver across the fleeting ground. 
Trembling as I see. The whole of the world moves through me in blurs, 
When its distinct colors form to light. With clutched fingers on the rails, they make
My ears ring from the sound. I await the end on the last stair. 
And I despise this house

Details | Prose Poetry | |


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 | |

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
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
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 | |

Mother Of Waters

Mother of Waters
you're peace and tranquility;
how I long to be as free.

Oh Mother of Waters,
mighty! untroubled, and true!
change me to be just like you.

You have given us life
then have taken it away...
seen battles lost and won
through the nights until the day.

But who can say
what controls your silence?
And who can say 
what commands your violence?

Sweet Mother of Waters
graceful, mystic, serene...
who can know what you have seen?

You have given us life
then have taken it away...
seen battles lost and won
through the nights until the day.

but who can say
what controls your silence?
And who can say
what commands your violence?

Dear Mother of Waters,
great mirror of the dusk and the dawning...
calming, soothing, everlasting...
how I long to be as free!

Change me to be just as thee.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

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 | |

Dead Mens Bones

Eyes that are unable to see.
Ears that cannot hear.
A nose that cannot smell
the sweet aroma of salvation.

Mouths won’t confess the truth.
Your tongue is full of venom.
Feet that follow fools.
Hands can hold nothing but sin.

A heart of stone,
Feelings that are numb to His touch.
A mind of evil imaginations.
Ideas are unreasonable.

Self righteous mentality.
Prayers are polluted.
Emotions that do not care.
Life is full of lies.

Intentions are a deceptive poison.
Your power is a huge vanity.
Ignorance can change nothing.
Your hope rests in idolatry.

Attitude of hate.
Your true shade is make believe.
Your favorite color is blind darkness.
Your ruler is un-named.

Nothing in this world is free.
everything must be paid for,
sin is no different.

On judgment day your proclaimed strengths
will show themselves weak.
Your so-called knowledge
will be shut up, mute; it will not speak.

Your decisions have been made,
Your fate has been sealed,
note it.

The Book Of Life closed.
Outside you appear righteous
but inside you are full of …
Dead Mens Bones.
from my book ...

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Upon greater reflection across the seas of tranquil dreams 
I did find a breath of solace 
Lingering in a dirge borne on the backs of rays 
Gathered to me and falling just so and so 
To more, and to more, 

Confuse… zed though I be and be 
Poppy top and so 
I dreamed and dream of what I do knot know
And I know, I know; now and when
In the broken dawn is why
In the cracked dusk is who
In the fall of the moon is where
In the sing of the sun is what
Confuse. . . zed through and through I be

Details | Prose Poetry | |

To you . . once more all over again

In case I should not live another day
I must tell you now before I forget
Of the treasures you hold within you
Have possession of in the many pages like these

I must pass it all on before I forget
Where I have lived to die and rebirth from

I must tell you now before I forget
The what of all I know lies in these pages
Lies on the once virgin pages stained now by this pen
The many pens to fall before it
To strike my soul across the lines into forever

I must show you before I forget
Where to look and how to unlock the gates
The many riddles captured within all these tales
Every poem I have written is about someone I know
Have known, never did, wanted to, wished to and I did, I do

I must apologise to you before I forget
All that I have placed before you on the page
Is true and shall ever hold true despite my ending
The learning’s are good guide posts, way-markers many

I am all that I wrote have written will write this night
To know me as you learn of life, find my past
Seeking my life as I have lived it and all of me shall be
Plain to your eyes that see as deeply as mine

I must tell you now before I forget
Coffee would have been nice
No, it would have been wonderful
I must apologise to you before I forget

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 | |

The Global Warming Goblins


 The Global Warming Goblins 
 were gruesome 
sneaky creatures
and there are movies 
featured with these 
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 | |

Ahh . . .


		Like air
			The wind

Did you feel it change?
	No . . .
		Did you see it

			The moment when it . . .

	Charged right past you

Like a cry from the gasp that beat you

		Was the moment soft
			Like a whisper

				Did you see the moment

					You changed your . . .

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Wisdom is the building blocks of Truth.
And it is the best charity. 

Knowing and understanding are different awareness.
Understanding is superior to knowing; 
One who understands knows as well
But one who knows doesn’t necessarily understand! 

To understand is to know something in detail.
It involves input of information and their processing in brain
In other words it involves thinking.
Whereas knowing 
Is the result of some input of information in the brain. 
Knowing is an outcome of observation or feeling 
But understanding is an outcome of thought

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Two Important Things Never to Forget

Each day we face many mental perils, have to make many important decisions, 
like what color socks to wear.  Some things must take priority, however, and it's 
important to keep them in mind.  The first is to be comfortable with yourself; you 
may not be perfect, but, darn, who is?  Be happy with yourself if you can truely say 
I did not intentionally hurt anyone today.  There's more than enough bad people 
out there to do that for you.  So pat yourself on the back for a day of sainthood!
The second thing is....uh...the second thing, I don't remember!

Details | Prose Poetry | |


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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Slave

What man boasts that he is free and comes from great fathers,
But if they breathe any air on this earth then they are a slave,
If the free man does not feel heavy chains around his ankles,
That man is a fool can't he see the fetters on his brothers.

How great it must be to not have to tug or loosen your chains,
To have true freedom and sleep soundly in a feather lined bed,
Not to have chains so uncomfortable there is no rest or sleep,
No leather heart as he does not owe any man any kind of debt.

True freedom is the want to help others in their desperate need,
Offer our brothers help who are too scared to use their own voice,
We need to hold hands and show our weaker friends the way to go,
With our hearts and hands help those who are weak and lost in fear.

We are all slaves in one way or another we all have heavy chains,
And as slaves we will not choose any hatred hurt or wretched abuse,
Not in silence we know its our voice that shows we care and love,
So if you are not a slave and are not in pain then you must be dead.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fabel Twentyone

The city was under snow encamped in ice and wet the water never ceased to fall 
for days at times we cried my friend and eye. 
The poor were never satisfied with bread they always cried for meat to feed the 
lust replete now buried in the caverns if the sleet came near the hydras of the 
long forgotten faded flowers in the snow marking time to be considered luck. A 
Penny tossed when drinking drunk not stoned. A Penny lands in jail on tails and 
soon the food will come. Poor not poorly educated just missing love. 
 Christianity - 30+ CE PARTTWO
Flipped a penny turned to tails changed the luck to better days moving down the 
road with no heavy loaded gun shooting only wishes at the stars. Eye have a 
solar powered outlook not on life but down my nose. 
Girls at home still not in collage need to play with Barbie leave the Ken doll in the 
box. Alone. He is not the chieftain of the dolls. Fallow fish are useless days are 
wasted lost seaming calibrations find the reason for the rhymes.The science that 
deals with mental processes and behavior is sometimes revered as psychology 
the moderators quite agree the thought process is interrupted in some people 
call them crazxy treat them normal feed them house them bury them in wasted 
places sweep them up in boxes marked for burial let no one get away. Murder 
rules the day. 
Play games and get mad take the ball and bat back home save them for the next 
day come. Dress up in your finery hose smelling like a rose in purple jaded livery 
repose upon the couch in linen and in majesty her majesty arose. Toss a 
penny “is it tails?” read the poem prose the CharlaX Fabel Twentyone and love. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Jesus EverdaY

Jesus EverdaY
Fruit not even ripened yet still green so it will last
Meat, already cooked so eye is not embarrass
Health, the center of my body, so uncertain, and yet it works
Love in heart so pure forgiven; life cascading from HIS throne
Eye paused and still considered life
Eye have my everYdaY JESUS. 

A Prose Poem bye CharlaX. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |


I Am that I Am as Popeye would say ...
or was that the burning bush to Moses?
     Who is the I without the Me?
     Which came first the Me or the I?
     Does the Me know the I?
          When You speak, You say You to Me
          and I say I to Me and You to You and then,
          We speak of  Them.
                When I say Me and You say I when You speak of You
                but not when You speak of Me,
                and They just don't know what to say. 
                    And there You are again
                    and here am Me ...
                    or is it I?
                         Which I Am do I speak of when I speak of Me?
                         The I Am that is Infinity?  or, the ego I
                          that thinks it is all?
                               And what of Me, that little itsy bitsy Me
                               that crawled and cried and cooed, 
                               then rose up to become a Me that got to say:
                               I think           I feel          I believe
                               as if it was all about Me or until it was about You ...
                               Is that when it was We?
                                    Or is it always and forever one universal We
                                    with a Me who can feel apart from and forgets
                                                              I AM.