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Prose Poetry Places Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Places

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

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lucila

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There she is.

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

Now it’s my turn.

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

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

Go fig.

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

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

But, “Now I am”, is uttered.

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

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

These winds of change
became gusts of numbness.

I locked myself out of my heart.

I turned around to go back inside.

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

© Drake J. Eszes


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Kilted Warrior

He stands proud and strong, this kilted warrior
head held high against the unending pain
of a heart born out of sadness
for the loss of those who came before him
and thoughts of those who would
continue on when he himself was no more.
Proud men one and all
vows made, till surrendered in death
to defend that which
was their birthright, the very land
upon which he now stood.
The call to battle though long since silenced
came from within his very heart and soul
blood of the ancient ones raged in his veins
his sword by his side...shield upon his back
he stood ready to charge into battle
to do what was expected of him since birth
to fight as those before him fought
without fear, but with a strength
only a battle hardened warrior
knew and understood.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Burned

Hiss, Hiss, Snap goes the lighter
And he walks ahead
Just like a fighter
Click, Click, kaching goes the money
And he leaves with his poison
Why am I laughing? This isn't funny
But I can't help but laugh, laugh, laugh
My face hurts
My mind is starting to drift
And boom! Something bursts
I'm the boss of me
And I'm not so right
What do I do
I'm losing my own fight
Who is this?
This isn't me
I can't believe what I see
Hiss, hiss, snap goes the lighter
And he passes it round
Down, down, down, goes the fighter
We all make a sound
Crash, crash, crash
We are heading
Burn, burn, burn, we are burning
But, no one is learning
What did I do?
What was I thinking?
I can't believe I wanted to
I'm the boss of me
And I'm not so right
What do I do?
When I let myself lose sight
Who is this?
Who is she?
What did I do?
Is this me?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Genoa by night

Genoa by night

Meandering streams of light
Like wisps of smoke
Wrap themselves on the hills
Of the dormant city,
Sliding towards the sea.
Genoa beautiful appears
By night too
Almost as awaiting
For the new day
Silently.

Genova di notte (italian version)

Rivoli di luce tortuosi
Come volute di fumo
Si avvolgono sulle colline
Della città addormentata, 
Scendendo verso il mare.
Genova bella mi appare
Anche di notte
Quasi attendesse
Il nuovo giorno
Silenziosa.
  


Details | Prose Poetry | |

FRIEND IN YOU

(Tatyana Kasima)

Life is a journey of countless sub-destinations
It’s in stages and phases
Life is a function of time a subset of different season
Wet, dry, winter, spring, or summer
Each is experience one at a time
 
Life continues as a journey
When the journey is far
I am empowered to keep moving
When every thing seems locked up and become tiring
I received encouragement never to look down but keep focusing
 
When the sun is at its peak
I am hopeful there is a shade ahead to hide my head
When it’s stormy, heavily rainy or snowy
I know with an assurance
That the house ahead will take me in
 
Just in a land of different culture and lingual codes
I feel at home because I have a friend that knows, trusts, and believes in me
He is the reason I’m encouraged and the source of my strength
He is the house and home that take me in
He is my beautiful angel sent from above
I bless the heaven for the friend in you

© 2011


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Glistening Silver

Glistening Silver

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Rwanda's Why

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



. 11th Oct 2014.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Stolen Hearts

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

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


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


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


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


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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

FRIEND ON THE FLIGHT

 (Dedicated to Dana Rugina)


On that very cool and refulgent evening
Flying from Europe to Africa
Luck placed me beside you
How beautiful it was to look at your pretty face
How wonderful to know you are from Romania
How pleasant it was to have a seat beside you
How glad I was to know you are a mathematician
Though accented, paid kin attention to listen to me
I had a smooth and sweet flight
Not because it was an Egypt Airline nor that I sat in business class
But because you keep my company
“Is your final destination Egypt?” ignited our conversation
“A man that keeps quite will die” will I always remember
Because they are words of wisdom
I believe I’ll see you again
Friend on the flight
Where and when, that I cannot say. 

(c) 2011


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Chounds like

 Chounds like 
100hundred58 
 
 
 
CharlaXFabels 
 
Chounds like 

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Cobwebs that Smiled and Tick Tocked My Teeth.

I wondered about midnight, with the

click-click

of my tongue standing straight up in between my teeth, my hair fell to places that were
begging for his fingertips, for the smooth warmth that occurs when he kisses my skin...


I laughed at moments we shattered, because destruction is amusing when you are in love,
and I was untouchable then, my breath sounded like time and time...

bit me...

leaving bruises that resembled....

teeth.


I wanted to submerge his inebriated head with the secrets I hid behind my smile, and if
spaces were eventual then surely I'd reach for him, but he'd never remember the corners of
my mind when he slept, he'd never have nightmares from the knowledge that my cobwebs have
captured his smile...


I walked through us as if we were ghosts, I saw the images of our every mistake, I bit my
lip and threw my shoes to the bottom of forever just to see if I could hear them tumble,
so I'd know what I'd sound like if I...

were to fall in.


I begged for quiet with the twisting of rings and my thumbs seemed naked despite the
donning of Seattle, and you know the mountains there, they whisper secrets when you're too

crazy

to hear them, when you're too caught up in the beauty of possibilities to listen...


so I found myself quite possibly caught and I wondered if his webs glistened in the
moonlight that dropped from sleep

I wondered if they smiled

if their tongues clicked

if they felt

like

me.






Details | Prose Poetry | |

A different Kind of Love

|was at my depths end,
Worn out and not knowing
What to do...
To save me....

The  miles I drove...
So alone kept me
Wondering why
Did I do this...

All alone through
The night shifting gears
In the moon light
just me and the stars>|

Pushing my big rig
To limits I dared...
Around curves and
Down grades....
None would ever believe...

Faster and faster
I'd drive through the night
Just to feel something
Exciting....
So much better than my life..

I unloaded on a weekend...
With nothing to do
And took a load
Back to places I'd been....

Suicide is a place
All truckers think,
Around the next bend...
Would be a perfect place.

Yes, I thought these things
I admit....Until I saw
In Barstow of all things..
A place I could get my
Big Rig into....

I needed to feel loved
And be loved...
And love just the same...
That I stopped.....

Not that I had the time to waste
But I really didn't care...
I had a need I just had to fill...
And I was there...

I walked in familiar
With places like this....
Cages with dogs yelping in despair...
Speaking to me....

I did take one outside,
We did not connect....
I was lonely and humble
when I saw her....

She sat there so quiet...
Looking up at me...
So sweet....
Not a whimper....

We went out to the play yard
I expected her to run...
But she stayed next me
Just wanting to be loved....
 
I paid sixty five dollars
For Vet fees and more....
My sweetness was loaded
Into my truck...I was late....

Katie awoke on the floor
Of my big rig.....
Some where in New Mexico
We stopped....

Just four months old....
My Shepard mix....
Kissed my face....
And saved my life....

It's been five years
To date.....and I have
To share....that my Sweetness
My Katie.....
Is why I am here.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Seismac

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

How to Order a Pizza In Dutchess County

First, be aware, all close by 6pm.
NYC, this aint.....
Second, call up.....
Specify delivery.....
Detail requests....
"How much are beers?
"$2.50 each..."
"Okay- I'll take 4 beers and a slice.
What's that come to?"
"$26.50"
"Huh?"
"$26.50"

"Hold on, 4 beers, each $2.50,
that's $10., right?"
"Yeah."
A slice is $16.50?"
"No, you have to add sales tax,
Oil surcharge, delivery fee, employee
dependent's education fund,
wear and tear on the tires,
and telephone imformation fee."
"sorry, you're right, that should be $29.50."
"huh?"
"Additional questions are $2.50 each...."

"Nevermind." click.

"Hello, Chinese Jade Restaurant..."
"Hi, any MSG?"
"No, we don't go to Madison Square Gardens"

From now on, english muffins and liverwurst!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ghost of Bayou Cannot

Some folks believe it. Others do not. The legend told in the Bayou Cannot. The only witness who can swear that it's true, are the creatures who live in the bayou. The owl told the gator, the gator told the frog, about the horror filled night that changed their home in the bog. Far off on the mainland, miles from the marsh, in a large city, where living is harsh. A man's world invention sprang into life. A breath of fresh air to man's world of strife. A new deisel engine, queen of the line, would make it run for the very first time. The sunset limited it was aptly named. Gleamed in the station waiting its moment of fame. Boarded by folks going south, some headed out west, none mindful of anything, but each's own quest. New York to L.A. via the southern run. So it was, the trip had begun. Back in the bog, things were happening too. A barge made its way north with its captain and crew. The day had been hot. The night had turned cool. The fog roiled in, with its blanket of dew. The captain steered his tug, painfully slow, caution was key to safely deliver the tow. All of a sudden there was a scrape and a jolt the barge floated free, not held by a bolt. Panic seized the crew! "We've lost the tow!" "MAYDAY!" screamed the captain over the radio. Amid the chaos and moans of disdain, another great jar, "We've got it again!". Back on land not far down the track the Limited sped with a clickety-clack. Approaching the tressel no one noticed the shake. Who could blame the poor folks; the hour was late. Midway over the bayou came the tressels demise. A great shiver another great quake, tons of speeding steel, folks met their sad fate. Days went by weary and sad. Rescuers agreed none worked a wreck this bad. Twisted and bent the engine was pulled from the muck and the slime. "102" came the final count, the coroner spoke and noted the time. A weary voice shouted "Wait!" "Sir, I disagree!" Tired eyes turned, what did they see? A weary man held in his arms a child about three. Today believers say "an angel wanders." "A tiny spirit" Others agree. On foggy nights when no moon can be. A tiny light flickers so you will see. "It's a firefly!" Say the skeptics of haunt. The creatures disagree and murmur their taunt. They know the spirit of the child now lives in their swamp.

Written by my grandmother Sandra Burch


Details | Prose Poetry | |

141onefortyone

 141onefortyone 
141onefortyone 
 
 
 
CharlaXFabels 
EwewonthelotteryNOT 
 

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



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Pathway

Tall thin pine trees swaying in the wind 
Sunlight breaking through the narrow gap 
Distant green-capped fields the morning find 
Discarded over there, a branch with sap

Yonder, redundant teacher prunes his tree
Still an intellectual without a class 
Had a dream of one day being free 
And now believes that life is crass

Lonely dog prowls around his den 
Tied to his post without a walk 
Why should God's creature be kept therein 
What would he say if he could talk

White butterflies have crowded round the bush 
What do they know that I do not 
The hedgerows coloured and full of lush 
Nature's stories we have all forgot

We all believe the pathway long 
And suddenly we glimpse the sight of age 
Why have we neglected nature's song 
From this day I will turn a new page

Reflect you well on life, on pain 
Started well with hope and joy 
Life is witness to wealth and gain 
But is a failure were dreams to die


Details | Prose Poetry | |

LOVE ON DEATH LINE

I have not eaten today,
But my heart is filled
Not hungry of affection.
I had a fill of you last night
A fill of you for a life time

All around us are walking corpses
Corpses of political disregard
Humans of no nations
Even when they are bona-fide citizens
Your blood and mine flows in them

The government abhors the poor
Feeds them with empty promises
Shoves them through the door
They pay the bills
For social amenities they can’t find
Pay taxes for their castles 
Government built in the air
But we know their ancestors
Filthy dogs eating from the king’s crumbs
No; Lets not unknot the knot
Soon a messiah might heed us

In heaven’s book of life,
I heard the poor names are there
In here’s book of life
It is deleted.
Thus, in your head,
Lays your kingdom and glory 
Get rich or die trying
Or; be their poor and keep sulking.

Well, like them I saw… 
I have not eaten
Flesh gone weak to skeleton
Nevertheless, 
The solitude of love within
Keeps me living; I am breathing
But I am moving,
Towards your direction
I see your beam

I feel new
When I see you
From my heart 
Seeps through the rays of the sun
Its fun; this love on death line
We survived the genocide
We survived the war
We survived love
We survived us
I love you too.

This poem is dedicated to the abused tribes of Rwanda and Nigeria during their respective civil wars resulting in near human annihilation. Though time has passed, we still feel your pains chilling our bones. The survivors.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

STUYVESANTOWNE

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 | |

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 | |

Alabama Snow

The long never ending landscape of southern Alabama never runs cold. Today it decided to. The wind was at 
ease and all the snow flakes were about. The cold ground shuddered beneath me but I could tell it was a good 
kind of shiver. The snow fell down in a hurry yet it still took it's time swaying in the wind. All the snowflakes 
danceing around soon started a low tune far off on the wind. The band played a song that the world has been 
playing for centerys. One of love and peace. One that has no bounds or experation date. The song was cold 
enough to freeze the earth but here I stood warm as I basked in my happieness. The world seemed still as the 
orchestra played it's beautiful tune. The wind swirling and twirling as if it were a finely tuned violin. I couldn't 
bare to close my eyes for it was just to beautiful to look away from. As the wind picked up in it's gusts the 
snow felt ever so heavier and the skys begain to melt the love within the snow as all the snowflakes fell down 
as rain. "What a beautiful conversion" crossed my thaughts. The snowed over feild grew dreadfully quiet as the 
beautiful tune escaped into the wind. This was when I sudenly realized I was soaked and freezing. Almost killed 
me but I steped inside away from the Alabama snow. But I knew she'd come back for me.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

9904 the ending

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

North Carolina and the Moment in Which People Kiss.

I sang the words of

Joni
Mitchell

and pretended to own barstools as my sweaters lost color, I scribbled words on napkins and
slid drinks underneath them, I pretended to be...

him.


“Buy me something, something I can wear around my neck and place pictures in, something
that sparkles, something.....pretty,” I asked him.

He shook his head because he knew about my tendencies to break chains when I felt too
locked up, he knew the way I loved to run.

I stopped for a second and paused the moment we were supposed to kiss in, I placed my head
on his lap and told him of North Carolina~

only because I loved the words.

I stopped there, sometimes, on the borders that separate Virginia, I've thrown my life on
hotel room floors, losing it under the bed just so I could sleep, I've walked out and left
myself behind, and I've wondered, those times, about the meaning of forever.


We met, he and I, you know, in a hotel, in a room where the key unlocked me, and I had
thrown myself to the floor with a black skirt and a pair of fishnets and 

h i d

under the bed while he smiled...

I kept my eyes open, on top of bedspreads and headboards and I kept thinking that we'd

stayed too long
that
we
stayed past the moment where people kiss...

and I wondered, that time, if that moment meant forever, but I forgot to ask and was too
frightened to hear the answer.


Years later, we slept, we dreamed in North Carolina, after I sang him

Joni Mitchell

after he gave me something pretty,
he gave me his name
to dangle
around
my
neck.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lagos, A Confuse City

April 23rd,
The seductive smoky weed descending from Kabiru swept through my nostril
Cracky creepy shanties sneaking 
Pulsating stench sneering from gutters
Churning and choky smoke oozing from the BRT buses
Area boys bullying
Police officers begging for spiritual currency
Perputuality and patriotism is our uniform
Confusion descending from the State House
Fashola’s spectacles is missing
Tinubu is snoring
Okada’s boys on rampage
Mama Risikat with assorted bottles of combined
I embraced a cup to shine my eyes
I embraced street live
Growing up in the hood
Swimming with the skally wags and hood rats
My dreams are illegal in Lagos
A meter from my nose 
Is a sawmill and smiling garbage as high as Babel
Emeka’s blaring speakers echoing;’ do me, I do you, God no go vex’
Beside me, is a 2 storey house
The city of scam
‘Boys go hamma’
Unliag coconut heads with their effizy
Adeola’s gap-tooth snowballing
My naughty pen crying, ‘chop my money’
At dawn, the muezzin whispering’ Allahu Akbar’
O’ Lagos, your womb is polluted and punctured
Your dreams cut through third mainland bridge
Swaggering and swooning it trails
Lagos, a confuse city.


Written by Awoh Kingsley
Dedicated to Adeola 
26th October, 2012







Details | Prose Poetry | |

Shifting Sands

Shifting sands, ever changing
with the always steady beating
of the planets heartbeat.
Patterns dynamic in their structure
always different, never the same again
carried on the wings of the wind
and its passing whim.
Hills and valleys dot the landscape
flat lands going nowhere lead ever onward.
Tiny grains of sand alone
are naught but infinitesimal specks
but together they can be mighty indeed.
Life abounds in this ever changing universe
with times passing it continues to fight
in order to survive its sandy domain.
To exist at it is/was destined too
is the only truth it knows.
Grains of sand mark the passing of time
minutes, hours, moving ever onward
with the shifting of sand, never to be retrieved.
Where it begins no one seems to know
its ending a mystery as well
is the end the beginning, or is the beginning the end?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Utopia

The oranges and pinks of the veiled sun,
Like a newly wed, 
Shines,
On the golds and crimsons, 
That peeps behind the defeated chlorophyll.
I wish the vain clouds wouldn't be as surreptitious.
I wonder, amazed, 
If I were the waters that never flowed,
Unambitious, stagnant, constant,
Yet ever-growing, ever-receiving,
Imbibed with the glory of the colors that make me,
I would be at peace,
Believing, this is all that exists,
The beginning and end of the Earth,
And I am the bosom of it,
Cloaked and protected.
Content.


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 | |

Impact of Radiation

my knowledge on the
impact  of radiation 
is quite limited

but I do wonder
if radiation would be
in a brand new car

that was produced in
Japan after the earthquake
and the tsunami

if the water has
radiation, would the paint
on the car be safe?

do we realize that
dangerous radiation
impacts the whole world?

do we realize air,
water and nature will not
be safe for mankind?


sadly, inventions
without preparations for
disasters proceed

and mankind welcome
each with great expectations
to increase comfort

until the next time
a tradgedy occurs, and
many lives are lost


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Cardinal Silence




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

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

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

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

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

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

Cardinal silence whispers of
mankinds fall.

Someone stop the silence
before it is too late.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A sound of orient

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lady London

What trace of shadow, of language long and distempered in memorial
elegy, of abbeys as dismembered dolls lifted from their wrappings, of
hallowed grounds embedded with upturned forks while cigarette
embers chuckle soon sound aslumber in the crooks of pews, of 
fallow convictions interred between dour stones of the Thames,
retracted like a lover's kiss, of security in flightless ebon wings
while its mercurial eye peeps on Marriott's old ladies for 30 quid,
of refuse systems as landmarks to history, dear old old Form(al) 

city.
no cat no cradle in its strings of moving metal carriages in the heavens
and hell,
Shakespeare Shakespeare! What a play you've made of her, our fair
Lady London


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Eightynine

 Eightynine 
Eightynine 
 
 
CharlaXFabels 
 
FearsRelived 
 
FearsReleave 
 

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



Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Diwali Tree

Magnificent lights adorn the biggest Christmas Tree in the world,

It glows with Indian colours and flair,

Passers-by stop and stare,

Surrounded by ritzy shops and blocks of ice,

Skaters showing their expert talents with all their
might,

A Diwali Tree sure to ascertain International revelrie,

brightens up New York City,

It brings glee to all around,

Its exuberance overflows and astounds,

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

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



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Malaysia


The gentle breezes danced
On the tips of the harbor waves
As I watched the village 
Filled with huts fade away
On the Malaysian shoreline 

All of the fisherman
In their long boats followed
Until all that was left
Was the syncopated beating
Of oars striking the sea
In tempo to some old chant
That I had heard them sing
Many, many times before

It’s been over thirty years
Since I have seen Malaysia
And the sun burnt faces
Of the children playing
On the white sandy beaches

But when the summer sun
Beats hot over the land
Casting long, long shadows
Into the deep green forest trees
I can still feel Malaysia
Rippling over me
Like a cool sea breeze
Carrying the memories
Of a young man
Standing on the bow
Of an old clipper ship
Watching village huts fade
Along a Malaysian shoreline 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

CharlaXFabels PARTONE LEADVILLE

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Belonging

Everyone has a place where they belong,
For some, it was where they were born,
grew up or lived,
Others create places in their mind,
Somewhere where they felt safe
free from the evils of mankind,
A place where shining is permissable
without the criticism of devils,
Belonging stems from the heart
and has no reason or rhyme,
The heart knows what feels good,
and what places induce slime.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

CharlaXFabels Part Two MUDDville

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

20FabelSEVEN

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Last Call

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Insights/Outsights

Hope no one is gettin' the wrong message, I am not petulant...My EMail is 
available to anyone (Quasarttt228@aol.com) My phone No. is another matter, but 
certainly available to Shar and other close poets.  Be advised I often do not pick 
up unless I know who it is (old habits from creditor hounding days)
Yes, Shar, I too love Swanson's dinners- when we were kids and they came in 
real tin foil trays, we considered them a special treat...and (though I am an 
excellent cook) I love them too..a batchelor's friend, you might say.  I feel and 
appreciate the love, and reciprocate to my best ability...You  got lots'a critters, but 
in my worse days (a few years ago), in an unheated house without gas, phone,
TV, sometimes electricity, food, hope...I still had my musical jams sessions...they 
were worth goin' on for...but in terms of critters, I was King!!  Squirrels in the 
ceilings, walls, constantly eatting thru, usually right over my bed, often running 
loose in the house, with their nastier relatives...ask "Willard", and many other fun 
things to occupy my time.  But I loved the place (still do)...and would go back 
there in a heartbeat if it was still standing, and a possibility...So where I am is 
nice, (but Boring!)- and I got no complaints about none of that.  I gotta get you 
some copies of the bogus "TV Guise" magazines I used to make for my father's 
birthday...they each took weeks, and were universally admired...I'm not sure what 
you want me to "stop saying", but you're the boss, far as I am concerned.  Love, 
tom.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

NATIONAL TREASURES

Brecon Beacons for pony-treks,Cumbrian fells and bubbling becks;Dartmoor 
with rocks rain scarred ,Lake District views beloved of bards.Northumbria, above 
on moor and hill,where Roman echoes linger still.Stone-bridged hamlets in the 
Dales with enclosed leas along its vales.Snowdonia ,one thousand yards high 
reached by slow trains up to the sky.Pembroke with its distant trail so 
long,heritages for us to protect and prolong.National treasures to preserve and 
enjoy by rich,the famous and hoi poloi.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

CARTMEL TO KESWICK

Buttemere to Ulla pike,our walk more ramble than hike.Up and down,rain or 
snow,two teenage daughters in tow.Haystacks,Loweswater overlooking the 
lake,now locked in memory's keepsake.Up Skiddaw and Wythrop beck,much 
much longer than our usual trek.Through the wood onto Dodds crag,both the 
girls now starting o flag.Down the slope to Underseer stopping to buy a small 
souvenir.Out on the fell with spongy moss,Wainwright in hand as the paths 
cross-cross.Along the beck in a tree lined walk,watching the antics of a hovering 
hawk.Deer grazing 'neath woodland trees,Cartmel to Keswick,just the place to 
take one's ease.lunch-time picnics on grassy banks,vacations now recalled with 
much thanks.