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Prose Poetry Political Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Political

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

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

L'Italia del Nonno - Drunken Pen Contest

It's addsurd! Who's going to veliebe his lies? Who's going to bote for him? Plutocracy in these times? To besmear American reputation?... with just a cl-ass... exercising its power by birtue of its wealth...and the legislators...aligators... those who considered themselves... the best...to receive... hiccup!...from lobbies. Or is it Oligarchy? ... or Aristocracy? It's one of those "cracy." Or is it this glass of wine? The old Lady from Arizona had endorsed him. Ha! He must not ve bery happy with it. Wrinkles of xenophobia... legalized discrimimination. Excuses, lies, and negligence... Somebody has to pay for the vroken dishes...in doggy perceptions without style... knocking at the door of their prejudice... trespassing upon their addsurd generalizations ... satisfying their own prommmiscuous imagination...they tend to destroy the ebbidence ... coloring just coloring, coloring, coloring. Pickpocketing their errant misconceppttions... their exiled spiritualility... their mind in poverty...guilty of  larceny, of stupididity, of biolence...On the other hand, an extended hand at traffic lights trying to get what they could ...some change...coins...rusted coins which were never thrown into a fountain... no need of wishes. Trevi fountain and Anita, Marcello, Federico...La Dolce Vita. L'Italia del nonno. Another inmigrant but in another country... Argentina, where foreigners went to work the land and were accepted with open arms. L'Italia del nonno. I need to go to visit his streets, his old towns, his Mediterranean sea, his Sicily... Rome and the Trevi Fountain...Anita, she reminds me of another woman... I thought I had forgotten her and her plunging necklines...sophistitication, style, glamor...lip balm, lip boosters, lip conditioner, lip gloss, lip liner, lip plumper, lip primer. Arden's Red Door never considered  the gag reflex for a pearl necklace. That's elegant; I should use that line. She should use the makeup remober at the morning vefore she wake up to sleep. Sleeping veauty: a porcelain...gorgeous outside - empty inside. Was it Arden or Rubinstein? or Lauder? "Pleasure"...her perfume still lingers... memories from a vuried past. She used to call me but I let her go. She knows how to cuckook. I miss her Cannelloni and Lasagna.L'Italia del nonno... The land that he had to leabe...Nero, Caligula, Machiavelli, Dante's Inferno,The Borgias, Mussolini. Hiccup!... Who's going to bote for him? Re-election never sounded so good...

Copyright © Ruben O. | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

It Is Not Preposterous!

It is not preposterous to think
people are motivated by sin,
A taste of the flesh
will make folks do wrong,
Just so they can toot their 
own horns,

It is not preposterous to assume,
that for a piece of a human being,
pests would stoop very low
to stealing a family's heirloom,

It is not preposterous to know,
we are living in a world that
is ignorant and shallow,
the hollowness that exists in
human kind,
will be the trait that leaves
the despicable behind.

Copyright © Margeret Bailey | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Serving One's Country

Serving one's country used to be a task done
with loyalty and pride,
but, the truth sets in after the perilous ride,
Veterans are let down by the promises made,
After the adrenaline subsides, 
They are left hanging in the shade,
without aid,
homes, families 
and incomes,

Abandoned without hope,
thinking that they are only
as good as their last battle,
shifted around like unwanted cattle,

How can America prosper with
these uncomfortabilities on their hands?
Veterans and their families deserve
a life that's becoming of the sacrifices
they made,
They deserve to feel pride and a sense of 
satisfaction, long after the battle and 
recuperation.....


Copyright © Margeret Bailey | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Absolute Power Corrupts Absolutely

Benefit for all is converted for the use of a few their pockets are included in national budgets and their wants, top the country's priority list. Even the Cock's raw corn is highly coveted by the Cat. An old plantain tree, preventing its suckers from growing or a father, who frustrates the welfare of his family is exactly the hell, created by these money and power mongers The political system is all about a game of cards. A particular clique fixes their huge pipes as the fatherland shrinks under no mercy. Leaders they call themselves, yet they invest on the hunger of their people profit in the poverty of the land and trade on all forms of artificial instability. Acquisition of a generation's sustainability turns out to be a hobby as they still fight for the crumbs with the weak and go for the meat, no matter how hot the soup is disregarding those who cooked it. The same citizens who once lined up to give their confidence which has now become a fatal sacrifice are gradually reaching the wall. So know ye this! A hungry man is one that is angry and when millions of angry men unite nothing can stop their quest. A people once treated less than animals will hunt like vengeful kings taking what is rightly theirs marking a restoration, stained with blood. Blood, far from innocence and purity!
Dedicated to African leaders, especially Nigeria!

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Here is a story about myself

My mind went on a trip one sunny day
In that trance I was president
Papa was proud of me
Mama felt pleased too
“You are a natural leader” said my neighbor
“I knew you would make it, it’s not a fluke” commented another
Frenemies surfaced in haste


My face was on TV
I was a president on the move 
Ain’t nobody stood in my way
I travelled far and wide
My term was short
I had to make an impact
Etch my name in the hall of fame
History had to have my name

Time is a march and the powerful are drummers
He who drums loudest leads the song
His life is lavish and his abode magnificent
Look who is drumming
Would they be drumming if I weren’t president?
Are they friends or foes?
Only time will tell
Then there was a reality check.
The chimera was over

I am just who I am
The same old nobody

Copyright © John Pen | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

MOTHER TONGUE

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright © Gisele Vincent-Page | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Patience

PATIENCE

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright © Gabrielle Charisse | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

WOMAN

Day by day we pray to stay alive, ladies, the face of this world is slowly changing, no longer do we need to hold our heads in disgrace, and it’s about time we take our place. No longer let us be connived, nor let us forget the silent cries in trees that our sista’s souls are still hangin’, see the true in others denies rather waistin’ yourself complaining. Nor keep us from strength to stand by man, strength to leave if struck by hand, no more bruises upon our face for we also help to make this race. No more scars upon our souls for only marked with beauty moles and let our stories be fortold for we are women who behold, a key to inspiration and moral pride, coming out of our hide, Gods rules are to which one should only apply, but most chose pain to keep inside, left alone and died. Your elimination of God’s creation, we are but faith to this nation. Men of ignorance we are sick of belligerence, cuz we prove intelligence, cuz where there’s no woman there is no man strong and on this land we belong as distinct and separate persons walk along. Before your ignorance get the respect that you so vainly seek, practice what you claim til' all things you do or speak shall in reality be the same, nor let us be so eased to blame and give us our well earned past due fame, all musical and sorrowful stories contained. My people, make me proud to know your name and I’ll return the favour by doing the same.
For all men whom think us fast, remember the good ones always finish last, we women are still raped future and past so personally you can kiss my ... In us your babies wombs all your life fluids we consume, to mothers growing up too soon, to those mommas babies and daddy’s maybes.....REMEMBER, when your round to actin' shady, we are the ladies of this land, women with pride we stand, I am a WOMAN and for equal respect, I would do it again!!!

Copyright © amy epiphany tunks | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

What Next

The height of science and the width of commerce in my dwelling place they merge with the ambassadors of understanding giving me their pledge. Capturing the seat of the wise and sitting over it, covering its edge as I wear the garment of knowledge. So what's next? My hands are filled with gold My pockets, heavy with silver these make me the Diamond myths and the greatest team player to financial strength. I've been owned and followed and my shadow, replaced with good health as I'm possessed and romanced by wealth. So what's next? Occurrences and happenings, I'm the doer Planting the seed of what's to happen next, like a sower with all authorities and rulership placed lower is the extent of my unbelievable power. so what's next? Acquiring all possible knowledge accumulating unbelievable possessions and becoming the greatest principality the world has ever known without positively touching a life and making a soul smile is going through a clothing store naked and coming out naked with everything in the world just strings. So what's next? DEATH! Leaving behind all the attachments as they drop in command of hades vanity upon vanity; all is vanity.

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Gerrymandering

Those spoken words that can't be taken back come back as incendiary 
attacks.  How many rough relationships must one go through before one 
finds smooth?  Is it me or you? Don't be fooled. We are the key ingredient 
that our kids feed on. Do they grow strong or limp along?  
Is there life out there? Is there hurt after mistakes?  
Is the Lord's day really all that great? What about the other days of the 
week?  The world continues spinning,  this concept of us is 
revolutionary.  Together we find balance in give and 
take, the reorientation of space so that the stars you look upon don't crumble 
and fall. Heaven is two feet from the ground.  A morning fog we walk through 
daily.  Good quickly dissipates and we're left wondering how heaven drifted so 
far away. What happened to Sunday?  How did the Sabbath move from 
Saturday?  How did we become disenchanted?  Separate but equal,  so 
political our lies are believable.  Can I count on your vote?  Sure (not really). 
Stop gerrymandering.  What's mine is ours. Erase the lines that divide. 
Come close to close.  Let me peer through you, stir that ocean inside of you. 
Let our problems fade in the distance like a pier five miles away.  
Rise above crosses and steeples above the morning mist that evaporates 
when the sun first kisses it. Let me hold you in my heaven till noon, 
lay with you in evening, give you that resurrective feeling at the first stroke of 
midnight.  Your dark knight with whispers of goodnight, choir preaching, have 
you heard a good word? Even after all that we see reaches oblivion,  
I got you. Going to ride it out until the waves become smooth. 
If still waters run deep, sit down so I can quench my thirst in your 
baptismal pool. Dive into your postrapedic positions and serenade you with 
what is coming next. Rain falling on violet painted window sills on the inside it 
sounds like a lullaby. We've mastered this concept so hard to come by. We 
can't do drive-bys,  can't duck and hide. Us and we go together the way 
summer follows spring. What you take away, give it back new. Be my 
solstice,  a day that separates and joins seasons. My soul sister,  soul mate 
and soul date: expiration of forever and a day. Together you and I with 
mountains to climb,  storms to soar beyond, and a heaven to get into, 
mornings to walk through.  No more gerrymandering.  A hope you can believe 
in. I am T.S. Lewis and I approve this blessing. Let's make it smooth.

Copyright © TS Lewis | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Nelson Mandela

He was a great poem
A warrior for the freedom of the oppressed 
A work of art
His charismatic aura luring both man and woman
He was loved by millions
Not only for his sacrifice but for his forgiving character
When he walked
The flowers admired and wave
The leaves quivered
The doves of peace release, flew up above
A man as great as he will never again be
He was peace poetry 
A work of art
Still the greatest example of what democracy should be
Freedom was his soul
A seed of which he planted in millions of hearts 
His name Nelson Mandela is a universal echo
No more will there be another like him 
He was the great poetry of our time

Copyright © Shining Bright | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

FACE TO FACE

I FACE YOU / YOU FACE ME 
THIS IS A PHASE OF REALITY 
PRACTICALLY DEATH IS ETERNITY
HOPE YOU GET THIS CONSTANTLY

THAT THE TRUTH REVEALS TRUTH AND LIES ARE DEMONIZED 
VISUALIZE THE TRUTHS AND OPEN ALL EYES
‘CAUSE THE FACT WE HAVE TO FACE IMPACTS ALL MINDS
BUT THE PRICE WE HAD TO PAY COST MORE THAN OUR LIVES
AS WE CRAM KNOWLEDGE IN SKULLS IN HOPE THEY'LL TURN WISE
BUT LIES FOR THE WISE ARE UNSPOKEN TRUTHS UTILIZED
THE STREETS ARE HARD AS OUR NEIGHBORS CLOSE THEIR BLINDS 
LIFE IS WAR: YOU AND I ARE LANDMINES
AS DISEASES OF LOVE MAKING KILL HUSBANDS AND WIVES
THE BOOKS WERE RIGHT, WE ARE LIVING IN HARD TIMES
AS THE WEALTHY STAY WEALTHY BUT THE POOR ECONOMIZE
THE INTELLIGENT STAY HEALTHY BUT THE IGNORANT ARE OTHERWISE
FURTHER FROM THE TRUTH THEN THEY REALIZE
THAT LIFE IS A TRANCE WE ARE ALL HYPNOTIZED
IN THIS RAT RACE OF HUMAN DISGRACE 
CHANGING THE WHOLE PLACE 
TO PACE THE CHASE OF THE FACTS WE HAVE TO FACE 
THAT LIFE IS A TEST WE JUST HAVE TO ACE
AND LEARN AFTER DEATH THAT WE ARE
FACE TO FACE

I FACE YOU / YOU FACE ME 
THIS IS A PHASE OF REALITY 
PRACTICALLY DEATH IS ETERNITY
HOPE YOU GET THIS CONSTANTLY

THESE FAT CATS WITH STOMACHS FOR TIRES MUST RETIRE
AS OUR LEADER’S FACING THEIR OWN DESIRES
WHILE THESE LIRES FUEL THE WRONG NATION’S FIRE
LET’S REHIRE ADMIRALS WE ADMIRE
THIS NATION USES COMPASSION FOR FAME AND FASHION
GOOD IDEALS COME IN RATIONS
WHERE DOUBT IS BROUGHT SLAVERY IS BOUGHT
NOW WE FACE FEELINGS TAGGED BY PRICE
AS THE IMPRESSION OF THE RECESSION SLIGHTLY RISE
THE VALUE OF A GESTURE ISN’T A JUST REWARD
CAUSE A SIMPLE SMILE NO ONE CAN AFFORD
AS THIS WARNING IS FUTURE’S COMEDY
THE TRAGEDY OF THIS PARODY IS NOW SOMEONE ELSE’S MISERY
AS SOME LIVE REVERSE TO EVIL
TO ROCK-THE-VIL ON THE SOCIETY NOT CIVIL
CHASING ILLUSIONS ONLY TO CATCH NIL
FACING FACT FROM FICTIONAL THRILL
IN THIS RAT RACE OF HUMAN DISGRACE 
CHANGING THE WHOLE PLACE 
TO PACE THE CHASE OF THE FACTS WE HAVE TO FACE 
THAT LIFE IS A TEST WE JUST HAVE TO ACE
AND LEARN AFTER DEATH THAT WE ARE
FACE TO FACE

Copyright © siza sibiya | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

What is truth?

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

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

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

Copyright © Monty Newman | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dummying Up

Dummying Up
              by Odin Roark

Once mannequins rocked.
Utilitarian heroes propped up
Behind steering wheels,
Windows,
Doors,
Even beside display animals.
Such were the iron-hearted
Of atomic testing ground history.

Today, Saks 5th Ave windows
With their sophisticated still-life-reality,
Serve the well-to-do shoppers,
The not so well-to-do looky-loos,
And of course, the anything-will-do bag ladies.

In Washington there resides flesh and blood versions,
Animatronic wonders,
Their brain circuitry void of action voltage,
Their suits, ties, tans
Makeup, coifs and dresses
Never askew.

Yet…

These elected reps continue more immobile
Than their lauded ancestry,
Those once sacrificial creations of purpose,
Now but a desert’s dwindling radio active dust.

Yes…

Dummying up has come a long way
To its glorification as our US Congress,
Where nonsense requires one dummy-up opener
So “I’ll see that and raise your wealthy-class
Pandering with five more tax cuts.”
At which point, they break for another fund raising junket.

Unfortunately…

The game will pick up where it left off on their return,
A mannequin mentality becoming more and more inflexible.

Copyright © Odin Roark | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fooling us All

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

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

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

these elite thugs
conducting violence above the law
fooling us all

Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

O! America Reverse

My opinions are changed, 
My heart lacks fervour, 
For you lunched the war, 
Purposeless, 
To liberate who are already free,
To enrich who are already rich, 
To make the fierce, more ferocious.

When will the time intrude you,
Make you see the brilliant aspect of the affair,
And humanity will sing the song of peace?
When will you peep into your inner-self 
To see the reflected image of you own?
When will you obey the divine commands
And make out them that God forbids pollution
Smog and fumes of turmoil wrapping His fair Earth?

 Now open your eyes
The shores are red; 
The lands are coated with blood,
The skulls are scattered like stones, 
For the sake of oil or the reserves of gold,
Be aware a single drop of   human blood 
Possesses more worth than all treasures
That the earth contains. 

Now stop killing; enough, enough, 
You neither surrender, nor do deprive others
Of the rights which the divine commands allow,
Go through the lanes with moderate bearing. 

Live like a benefactor among the nations, 
Share with them your victuals,
Stock of knowledge and skills,
And snatch them not of their own.
Return fathers to the orphans,
Husbands to the widows,
Brothers to the waiting damsels, 
And sons to the aged mothers,
If not then compensate them all,
For the broken hearts, shattered dreams.
 
Hatred against you thrives, 
Magma against you grows,
Let the volcano sleep, 
Beneath the layers deep, 
And only once apply,
The strategy of the weapon of love 
Discarding the old devices of uranium. 

The amount you spent on the arsenal 
Would have been enough to feed the world 
Though ten times bigger; 
If you had ruled the hearts,  
The world might have been a different place
Of love, peace and harmony. 

Through force your aims will never be gained,
So amend the ways and stroll on the route 
That enhances you in respect and esteem;
Review and revise the modes of actions,
 Follow not the path that leads the world
To the chaos, and on the point of no return,
For there will be a dark dungeon of curse,
O! America, for the sake of humanity reverse.  

Copyright © Muhammad Shanazar | Year Posted 2008

Details | Prose Poetry | |

SONG OF DEMOCRACY

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

(c) 2010

Copyright © Joshua Akinwande | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Almost Remorse

The slowest clocks bind the official wound,
An azimuth of the flesh, trust, first contact,
She blinks but no face appears, 
Does every mistake ask for such an ordinary end?  A seed cannot forget.
Cold, weeping statue of lifetimes, suckle her prayer in the erupting bed.
Fallen beside the tear of the flower blight, lips against the penetrator,
Learn to forgive the righteous terrors for an idle comfort.
What numbing freedom presses the soft lump pulse?
Tongues rally to expose the ghost of private remorse,
Who conceals the dignities of a suction thigh grave.

			--2009

Copyright © W.P. VanDam | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Organized Chaos

over 20 yrs of planning
using the very terrorists created 
to divide and conquer
try to fool the world
forget not that God is above you
organized chaos
not all are led by their noses
third world order
pretentious heroism
send more troops
tanks and armour
finish what was started
in poland where zionism was born
place puppets at heads of nations
while controlling the strings
divide then conquer
the real terrorists
it's a matter of time 
then peace will reign
while you send innocence too martyrdom 
you come closer too your end
Syria will rise
Middle East will rise
Palestine will be free
Africa will unite
the world will see clearly
the truth of who is the iron fist 
the very heroes 
the creators of organized chaos

Copyright © Shining Bright | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Survived Janjaweed Part 1

I was a girl of only 5 years when I looked across the desert and saw a cloud of smoke covering the skies off in the distance.  I remember being afraid that my grandmother might be hurt because she lived there with my Uncle Sofarlo, his wife and my cousins.         
     It was during the season of the drought, so the sky was bright blue everywhere except above Grandma’s Village.  I thought that the blazing sun had sparked a flame in one of the huts.  All I could do was hope that Grandma was okay.
     A few days later, one of my cousins, Lekelo, stormed into our hut and collapsed on the ground.  He said that Uncle Sofarlo was a little way behind and was bringing grandmother in a cart.  
     I never saw Lekelo so thin.  His face looked like leather stretched over a skull.  His skin was scorched and terror shown through the tiny slits of his sunken eyes.  They were almost swollen shut.  His tears had made mini-gullies through the ashes that stuck to his charred face.
     He fell to the floor of our hut and Mom ran over to put a blanket under him.  My oldest sister drew a bucket of water and brought some leaves to wash and soothe his wounds.  Everyone was running around trying to help him revive, but it did not look good.
     Of course I was terrified.  I might have been only five, but I knew that something awful must have happened.  He kept muttering the same thing over and over, “Janjaweed, Janjaweed, Janjaweed” until finally, he spoke no more.  
     Dad frantically sounded the drum.

Copyright 10-13-2014

I chose Dafarian Genocide.
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: GENOCIDE: SPEAK FOR THE LOST... the FORM IS POETIC PROSE  Sponsor	Cyndi MacMillan

BE SURE TO READ THE CONCLUSION IN PART 2.

Copyright © Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Distant Warrior

I get this wondrous chill as night falls
in mountains or desert sand
and I find myself dreaming about
home, my fondest memory
from this far away land.

I miss the special lady who 
stole my heart, my thoughts
and all there is of me;
and I deeply cherish 
our final moments together.

I think about the children 
I left behind, how I miss them 
and pray they’re  fine -
and it’s hard Lord,
it’s so very hard.

It’s times like this that I wonder
why I volunteered and I
get this knot in my stomach -
then I cringe and find myself 
trying to hold back tears.

Soon the battle will begin
when I’ll hear my own heartbeat
through the creepy sounds 
amidst treacherous mountain sides or
drifting sands and whirling winds.

It’s  time spent in worry,
fear, and some regret
as I encounter my fate
in the war so near
and I must admit, I’m scared.

This stench of war, 
the sight of it all,
it’s that awful image
of how I imagined hell
after Lucifer’s fall.

I wonder to myself,
“Does it have to be
that generations of people 
can’t seem to agree 
to the simple concept of peace?”

Soldiers don’t start wars
but they surely fight them,
making all manner of sacrifice
and I doubt that even once
did a soldier ever like them.”

Then I think of  “Old Glory”
and I’m filled with pride.
It’s a warm patriotic feeling
which overcomes me
from deep down inside.

I’m confused, scared
and battle weary.
I worry about those I love
as I cling to my faith  
and pray to God above.

I’m a distant warrior,
an American fighting man;
not an aspiring hero,
but just a simple soldier 
trying to do the best that I can.

Copyright © Ed Coet | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry | |

"The Plant"

When we travel,
we do so rather mindlessly,
never thinking that others
are out to live dishonestly,
Some will stoop to planting their
illegal wares on others,
causing all sorts of confusion and bothers,
Many will try to attach their ill-gotten
gains on an innocent traveller,
who is completely naive and unaware
of private drug warfare,
If your luggage is left unattended,
They will "go to town" unless
apprehended,
If the snoops are greeted by a giant snake,
that is sure to make their tempretures boil
and their hearts to quake, or stop......
and even when they realize it isn't a joke,
The least of their troubles is the illegal coke,
The victim may accidentally drop the antidote,
The planter's death becomes a foolish mistake,
because the owner of the luggage wasn't forgiving,
The truth of the drama is......,
"Planting" is no way to make a living!



Copyright © Margeret Bailey | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Bardstown Road at a Glance

The old, the new barely meet on the street of Bardstown road, yet diversity so unique, from Cherokee to the rarity, stepping forth in time with the antique structures surrounding you, from magnetic tape recordings to punk truly a highland of culture. The Victorian and the shotguns the two guns blazing an electric mix of the streetcars undesired prelude to hate Ashbury a lower height, thinking how Hunter S. Thompson may have mumbled a few gonzo words, on the way to decadent and depraved Kentucky Derby but where was I. The greasy spoons all in a row, out wrestle the dining rooms but the salons collage with saloons, somehow the college student gets passed the culture shock. A young man sits at the bus stop his guitar propped on the glass, maybe he is writing a hit single or maybe just hung over, as a young girl in a miniskirt with a quick flip of long hair and a glance over her shoulder hurries somewhere. My friends just want to look at girls and crack a joke or vice versa.
 On a white board scribbled meet the author of Cornbread Mafia sometime in November. There is just a strange feeling about this road, as the politically correct are begging to slay the political satirist, like a living far side cartoon, making  a statement, about which is more corrupt.They say, it takes one to know one but even more to know what you are not . Will corporate media continue to slowly suffocate journalism, with wet rice paper slowly, layer upon layer until journalism is dead? Then they will come for individual’s rights of free speech like a snail over a razor blade until the sword rusts with mucus. This began about Bardstown Road but ends as a Bard, a Town and a Road.

Copyright © John Beam | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Cottons Southern Man

More than a man, the south made.
Black and white, south one started, 
great oaks refused no man a child
to hang about it, call dark christmas.
Hallow was a name, old now hollow.
Stigma inside wears grey cotton
memories, alive die uncompensated.
Here, electricity has that sick sweet  
smell about it, as if it were once alive.
While morality, debates in pockets 
of isolated votes packed together.

Is It Poetry

Copyright © Poetry Is It | Year Posted 2009

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Economic Development

Economic development is the precondition of higher living standard
Therefore we should focus on economic development at first

We know infrastructural development is a must
For economic development of any country
So the government should go for it in the first place
And if necessary they should go for partnership with private entrepreneurs

Now it’s an open market economy
If we want to take off to the sky of prosperity
We need to utilize our own resources including manpower

We need to figure out our competitive advantages
Because it’s not a hard task for us in the information era

Now-a-days tourism is a lucrative sector for any government
Because we are living in the time of globalization

Protectionism is now a history
That’s why
The role of commercial banks and other financial institutions
Is more pivotal than ever

They should provide loan to the industrialists
In such a manner and style
So that the latter can import cutting-edge tech
In order to survive in the fierce competition of open market

Copyright © Asif Andalib | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fable Tenth

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


Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2008

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Who Are You

In the Work That Reconnects,
we have a dialogue exercise
in which Person A asks Person B
"Who are you?"
several times over a few minutes,
as it feels right to reprime this exploratory pump;
then person B does the same for person A.

The person hosting, facilitating, enabling
this reiterative question's redundant possibilities
is merely an echo-present listener,
noticing diversity within these multiple responses,
without judging good, bad, ugly, or even indifferent,
quietly hearing rhythms of longing for love
between the crippling cracks of anger and fear,
compelling and compiling self with other hatred,
pathology.

The question,
Do all these diverse self-descriptions truly fit
this same love v. anger-fear polyculturing-multisystemic elephant?
does not usually arise.
Rather,
we accept all these scrabbling voices
and hats
and feelings
and ideas
and beliefs
co-occurring within one bilateral
positive-health v. negative-pathology mindbody ecosystem,
seeking diastatic fullness
richness,
poly-empathic
polymorphic communication,
design, development, investment,
and cooperative-integrative implementation outcomes,
at the end of this elephant's rhetorical day,
if not sooner.

Why is this not always the case
when we ask our friends and families,
our public sector leaders 
and financial sector investors,
"Who do you hope we are becoming?"

What loves are we preparing to invest in 
and which past angers and future fears to divest of?

What indicators can I give
that I already invest in cooperatively regenerate health
agendas,
platforms,
designs and intentions,
co-mentoring therapeutic diapraxis
of which I preach so positively to others?

I know you support restoring regenerative health to our soil
and preserving clean water,
as I do.
So does it bother you,
as it does me,
that we still contaminate our water with poo and pee
instead of investing in nutrition-starved soil,
where both could be positive resources 
countering past neglect and abuse,
rather than doubly-negative pathology?

We say we support cooperatively vibrant and healthy local economies
and empowering political vitality,
so does it bother you,
as it does me,
to so often hear "either-or" deductive reductivism
and wonder why not first cooperatively consider "both-and?"

I appreciate what you just said
and I wonder if adding X might make your idea
even better.
Do you agree,
or maybe you see concerns for yourself and others
new to me,
of which we might learn together?

Could a cooperative election or social change campaign
begin with compiling interdependent hopes and wishes
and loves of Who Are You?
thereby more smoothly avoiding stuckness-traps
of fear and anger and dissonant pathological outcomes.

Could investing both-and cooperative communication norms
better lead toward co-investing in healthy wealth,
politically strong-embraced policies,
procedural and dialogical transparency,
polyculturally inclusive design and development and discernment
of poli-eco-logical therapy
v. multi-morphic pathology;
co-arise local through global health outcome networks,
diastatic eco-normativity,
embracing each and every sacred Person A and B response
to Who are we?

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry | |

BOOMERS

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.



Copyright © Ed Coet | Year Posted 2008

Details | Prose Poetry | |

RELIGION AGAINST MAN

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
Bombed
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

Copyright © Isioma Esemene | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

THAT OTHER CHURCH

People rushing ~ church on the corner
being on time ~ sits empty all week,
I walk there, around the building
new parking lot ~ I could roller skate!

My friend, she attends, I used to
remembering my legacy, as a kid
big Cathedral, choirs, altar boys
family reunions ~ stock principles!

It was strong, loud voices, even then
finding cars in parking lot,
the War (the big one) was ended
we forgot strife ~ remembered being together!

Years past ~ family almost gone
a survivor, Son who doesn't worship,
go to Church ~ big oil company employee
taking over U. S., ruining waters!
`
And I fight back, Nebraska midwest,
where once we fought & stood together
now land marks are at stake
not just church worship!

But it seems demeaning, churches full on Sunday,
Then fighting for land, water quality
why doesn't big Pharm and Ag pray with us,
we won the big one!

Why are we fighting them now,
equal rights for nature, God at rest,
maybe picture changes overnight,
Nostradamus gone mad from insight!

Are end times just a vision
land at stake ~ churches empty
and it's still a social issue,
politics and presidents ~ never good enough!

One man, putting his life at stake
used to advisors, good and bad,
is anyone's conscience driven back to God
Every day ~ every way!

Or is it ~ just that other church 
~ they're in the way!





Copyright © Paula Larson | Year Posted 2012