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Prose Poetry Sad Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Sad

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

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Girl From Darfur

I can show you where the brimstone sun has no remorse,
and where devils on horseback, have burned our homes, have pillaged our farms.
A killing spree,   the drum of guns, some tried to flee, but died,... each one.
The screams, I dream! Oh, the cries........the cries....... 
I try to mute the sound of them
For...,  I was there, I hid in fear,  was somehow spared, but now I look for 
something, ...something, ...something, here, ...someone to care.
A bit of food, a bit of shade, such bitter taste is in my mouth
A world of hate. To have no shoes,...a walking ghost.....
a blistered soul, I have no hope....  but nothing, nothing left. 
My eyes are blurred, and fires burn, a heavy world, shouts out despair.

Where are the flowers that used to bloom, where are voices, that once I knew?
There are no flowers here...just flies, in waist-deep dust, and a hot orange sun,
that coughs up sounds of fear and guns, and swords and words against my ears, I 
live in fear with no one here. 
I'm just a girl,  or at least I was....    for just a while.

I was defiled, when found by one
He spared my life, but did not see, I'd rather die than be this girl, who feels the 
shame in being free.
I once had a mother, I once had a father, I once had a brother who made me smile
Where did spirits, lift and go, when the devils on horseback came to kill? Spilling 
blood as if for fun?  For thrill? For what? 
Where were the Gods? Where are the ones who turn their heads?
In desert's dust with blood red crust.  They poisoned our wells, burned out our land, 
ravished and raped, and relished their brand......, 
nomads came, leaving shame, evil and horror came like rain.
 
Janjaweed, the name, I cannot say... I live with shame, a world, insane
I try to sleep, but I cannot........I can't forget and I am lost, the cost too much,
a swollen tongue and calloused feet,  across a land of bleached white bones
Alone, alone,....lost and done...a vanished heart......no one sees me  
There are no flowers, there are no trees, 
Famine as my lone companion, a pool of mud a home to stay,
Life drains out more every day, my belly swells....my eyes are parched,
and I can't tell
if I'm alive, or if I'm dead, dried up tears are what I shed....
Where are the flowers for my head? I've been scorned, 
all I have, and all I see is wind and rain, sorrow and pain
thorns, and dust, and a grave, that waits for me



__________________________________________________
Inspired By Cyndi's Challenge on Genocide 8/28/2014
Devils on Horseback – The Darfur genocide (ongoing) The Janjaweed (translated, 
devils on horseback) slaughter and rape the women, men and children of Darfur. As 
of today, 480,000 people have been “exterminated” and 2.8 million displaced.

Let's not turn our heads away from this, or from other atrocities being committed 
throughout the world.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Punished

                            ~ Punished~
                        
One evening with her dad she met this man at a bar very
handsome well mannered visiting from England.
After a few visits she started feeling him approaching her 
with nice compliments.

His attention made her fall In love with him
For months he took her out running to the beach 
shouting out loud I love your body i love your eyes
you’ll never belong to nobody but me.
 
On a moonlight night he was holding her so tight 
kissing her lips caressing her tits expressing his 
desire to light up the fire that was burning in their
entire body and soul.

As he was her first this is what she thought at the 
beginning she was very reserved yet she liked the 
fire she was feeling they were new to her his kissing 
was sensuous he smelled lovely he was caressing her
hair while sitting on the sand she was so taken by her
thoughts suddenly she heard.

Oh my darling let me love you my way let me make you 
my woman without any delay I beg you to give up and 
stop the fight I am promising at the same time to marry 
you very soon I will ask your dad that you will become my 
wife next Sunday at soon.

She wanted to believe him her head was spinning her heart
was beating to the sounds of his powerful movements
she was reaching the sky so quickly sensations of ecstasy 
she was feeling with his compliments whispering his love 
to her out loud while she was dreaming of the marriage 
as being lifted up on a carriage listening to the horses 
tapping on the course to the hotel room where they will 
spend their honeymoon as she will become that bride 
at noon.

Before even her dreams were over she felt him suddenly 
role over and ran away with no delay she could not understand
why ? Why? Did he leave with no good-bye.

Not realizing she was undressed hurried to get dressed ran to look 
from side to side asking herself why did he hide he promised me 
to be his bride? even if she was yet a child.

She sat where they loved each other looking at the ocean maybe
he will come back he must he told her he is in love.

Already it was dark in a low voice having no choice she ran 
home straight to her room wiping her running tears and fears
covering her feet to feel some heat and fell asleep not to see
her dad as maybe tomorrow he will come back with an 
explanation to his act. 

Hoping not to be deceived and very soon to be relieved
when he ‘ll knock on their door and swipe her off her feet 
tell her dad to fix their marriage.

She waited for days and days but that day never came 
she knew then it was only a game and she`ll never see 
him again and will never be the same.
                          
That early morning she woke up before her dad to cheer up 
herself for him not to doubt she had maybe made a huge 
mistake.
Having her coffee she pulled the newspaper and screamed
Oh Oh the man she loved was an addicted rapist being 
searched from the Interpol in England, he had convinced 
everybody doctors and nurses that he was cured.

Continuing to read she read his history that he was battling 
addiction of raping teenagers for the past twenty years. Lived
most of the time in jail.
She cried and cried she was raped by an addicted rapist who
was never cured.
                             
She could not eat or drink not knowing what to think 
while running to the sink that’s when she found out 
but couldn’t shout that she was carrying a rapist child. 

Where are you? She thought you were honest
But you were only an ordinary man still battling
your addiction.

Forgive me Oh My God! Her dad
forgave her out of love to his innocent daughter.

She had to keep her child and trusted herself
to bring him up not like his father.
And she did her son became an international lawyer.

   Therese Bacha
      27/5/2013
Contest for PD....Any Poem Goes.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Urban Forest

  All I hear are sirens echoing off tall buildings; a drunk man ranting, a prostitute looking for her next trick, a drug addict looking for his next fix. Young teenage kids who seem to have just learned the art of curse. A young couple fist fighting in the streets---more sirens.  A homeless man pan-handling, picking up cigarette butts and smoking a hole into his neck, gum pushed deeper into concrete marked blacker with every step. All I hear are sirens and I say a little prayer for the person in the back. Trains and boats chiming in the distance, a stray cat limping into an unknown existence...must be nice to have nine lives! Yet, all I hear are sirens in this concrete urban forest, where trees are replaced with buildings and cars are the only waves I hear, street lights in place of the stars, sirens in place of the wind. 

   I close my paper eyelids tight, i can hear in this concrete urban forest of man-nature, for a glimpse, a stolen second in time, the sound of Mother Nature...she still sings and she's crying. She's crying for the people in the back of all those sirens. She cries for her bush the drunk man urinated on; the puddle of blood collecting on her blades of grass that a young man drew from his womans lips. She cries for her branch the teenage kids snapped for fun. She's crying - Mother Nature - is crying, because man - nature takes her place. In this concrete urban forest...all I hear are sirens and I close my paper eyes; i try to reach out and steal the tear off of - Mother Nature's - face. All I hear are sirens and im saddened, man-nature takes her place.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

THE RAIN by Anna Lo P

"As I watch the blue skies
 Suddenly turned into gray
 Darkness easily surrounds 
 Their clouds, covered in haze.

 The rain will fall again, I say
 A nature's moment I dismay
 Raindrops will soon touch the ground
 The sad feeling, again I'll be hound.

 Splattering rain, the sound that haunts
 Sweet and sad memories of the man
 Taunting me to remember once again
 The love once lost, never be back again

 Every drop of rain that falls, I pain
 Each drop it falls, my heart is in vain
 "Try to listen" to the rain, he once said
 'Tis like a last goodbye, could not hear I said. 

 The sound of the crying heart, I still hear
 The sound of a weeping soul, I can hear
 The silent tears that they weep,
 The silent scream that echos so deep.

 Listen to every drop of rain
 To it's agony, vain, pain, 
 Listen to the rain as it falls, maybe
 There is your love, every drop after all...xoxo


Details | Prose Poetry | |

GONE Anna Lo PH

? ...GONE... ?

I never knew until that moment how bad it could hurt
To lose someone you never really had,
Days can be tough and at times cruel
To much for one to bear alone..

I was hoping that you would say
If I feel that I can't hold on any longer,
You'll take my hand and we'll go through it until together.
When the time comes, that if I can't stand on my own again
And I won't need you anymore, I will let go.
I will let go, if that would make you happy..

If you're lonely and your heart feels empty, 
Just tell me and I will step inside.
But if One Day, you'll be needing that space for someone else
Don't worry and gladly I will give in my space..

Like in a painful, sad love story
It's amazing how easily to fall inlove with someone,
Who simply smiles, talks or stare at you
The only hard thing to do is to make that person fall for you.
They say that time heals all wounds, but all it's done so far
is give me more time to think about how much I miss You..

Okay, so maybe time heals most wounds, right?
Then why does it feel like it?
The wound is getting bigger and bigger every second.
Maybe Love is just a beautiful dream, and then we wake up..

Just as they always say when somebody leaves
When love is lost, do not bow your head in sadness,
Instead keep your head up high and gaze for the stars.
For that is where broken hearts have been sent to heal..

What is the opposite of Two?..
...A lonely me, A lonely You...

They say relationships are like glass 
That sometimes it's better to leave them broken
Than risk hurting oneself in trying to put it back together.

Lost in my heart, lost in my mind, I'm lost in your eyes
Entire days, weeks, months, ...a blur...
Flickers of light in the darkness 
Only to be enveloped in shadow once more.
And yet within the shadows of pain
Might be the faint flicker of love once fel,t
And that could make all the darkness worthwhile
Because a single "I Love You"
Is worth more than a thousand goodbyes..

I'm tired my Beloved.. 
of chafing my heart against the want of you,
Of squeezing into little inkdrops and writing it.
Ask me why I keep on loving you
When it's clear that you don't feel the same way for me.
The problem is that as much as I can't force you to love me
I can't force myself to stop loving you..

So I tell myself sometimes..
'Count the gardens by the flowers, never by the leaves that fall.
Count your life with smiles and not with tears that roll." ..

Though sometimes, these tears say all there is to say
And the scars don't ever fade away,
I am thankful that for a moment
I once met You, I once felt you look my way.
I once felt You within me, in my heart and mind
I once was happy and alive with You
I once Loved you and still Loving You... xoxo

P.S ..KYHYCYILY.. always.. ? ? ?

(re-edited letter)


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 | |

Filbert Gets His Wish

Filbert Crumb..... Gets His Wish!

A sad little man was Filbert Crumb....as he sat on the bus. "
Another lonelyday"  He thought to himself.  
Looking up, Filbert saw a little dog.  
Neatly tucked  into a little girls backpack.  
Its' head was peaking out 
and smiled at Filbert.
 
"See, even a dog has a better life than me"...
"I wish I was that little dog".  
Filbert reached out to pet the pooch 
in the backpack 
and was surprised when the little dog 
happily licked at his fingers.

“Hi there little doggie, How are you?”  
And then the strangest thing happened.  
The little dog replied back!

“I am wonderful..”  
“Did you just speak to me?” 
whispered Filbert to the  little dog.


“Yep...Yep...Yep...I did!” said the little dog.  
“But how is that possible?” asked Filbert. 
“I really don't know, I am just as surprised as you are.” said the little dog. 
“Are you happy being a little dog?” asked filbert.
“Oh yes, it's wonderful.  I have a nice home, good food 
and toys to play with”.

“I wish I were a dog.” 
“Oh, you can be.  
It's really very simple to do.”  
Said the little dog with a wink.....
“All you have to do is this....

“Jump Up and Down on just one leg...
and spin yourself a round....
around and round......
and spin yourself around”....
Sang the little dog.
.“Really! Is that all?”  said Sad Filbert.

Yep...Yep...Yep....said the little dog.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

a fair day

It was a fair day for silence.

The sun had risen up courtly, almost mechanically,
Like a marionette on the strings of a puppeteer.
With the sun came Heat, wrathful to have been woken at such an hour.
As if avenging its early rise, 
Heat caused oppression, 
Discomfort and confusion 
Upon the innocent day.

It was a fair day for exclusion.

Only one was oblivious to the relentless heat,
He sat there motionless, lifeless and corpse-like.
They would glance at him nonchalantly.
He was just a piece of the scenery, 
Always had been there, 
Always would be there, 
Invisible.

It was a fair day for neglect.

Some say once he had been aware,
But life had hollowed him out, 
Left him a shell, 
Unmoving, 
Unblinking.
The day progressed, the light dimmed, 
It was as if fate and destiny had led him to this moment.
If anyone had cared to look, they may have noticed a glint in his eye.
He liked the sunset.

It was a fair day for an end.

The sun slowly made its way back home.
Heat gradually left, bored with the sun’s absence.
Silence was once more.
The sun closed its eyes. 
The moon began its regime over the obeying night sky.

It was a fair day for sweet nothing.

He still sat there, 
But no one knew.
So was he still alive, 
If no one saw him die?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Last memory

Bathed by the ocean blue 
There came a thought…
And it was solely of you.
How you’d dance across the night sky
With palms and the waves, waving good bye
With hopes and lights
All lost and wandering the night
Not at all lost…
But not at all found
I’ve wandered these towns…
I’ve wandered these thoughts,
Where has the time gone by?
No longer you dance…
No longer you play…
Just sit there in the sand
By the oceans nice bay
Dream with me tonight
Dream with me of all the things we once would do
Come back to life…
Just once…
Dance with me one last time
Beside the oceans blue
Come back to life…
Give me one last memory of you


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Accepting Pain.

She's sliding and if you look past, if you watch her.....

maybe you'll capture a glance of her yesterday.....

“Sunrise only falls when you don't believe tomorrow exists,” I explained, in my most
patient tone.


She bit her lip and shook her head, she followed me into my room and shut the door, she
locked us in, for an hour it seemed, and whispered in my ear....

“I can write pain better than anyone,” she informed me, “I'm brilliant at tears.”

And with this she tore pages out of my beloved sketch book, the one that no one is allowed
to touch, and just when my jaw fell with the shock of her brazenness, I shut my mouth as I
watched her pen turn letters into sobs....

I followed the words as they ran down, as ink turned into pretty swirls that screamed art
and I told her...


“Your angst belongs in a museum.”



I had never seen her smile before, I had never heard her grin, but her lips parted at that
moment as a single curl dropped down her previously wrinkled forehead and I saw the beauty
in eyes that cry and knew that she had realized I accepted it.


“Oh, but who would pay to hear me scream?” she asked, almost joking, as she crossed her
legs and sat forward a bit, as her teeth tugged on her bottom lip, as she looked more her
age and resembled a child instead of me....


“I would,” I replied, as I pushed back her hair and kissed her on the nose, “I would, if I
didn't hear you in my dreams almost every night.”





Details | Prose Poetry | |

That Which Is Real

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

This I know

Why?
The question so easy
So difficult to answer
I know why

Why?
It leaves me broken all over again
I know the answer, I know, no, no, no . . .
I don’t want this

Why?
This pain that’s not all mine . . . hardly mine
It rips and tears and cuts
My heart to pieces 
It bleeds and drains my soul away
I wish I never had one

I know why
Why did I have to teach myself the answer?

I know why
I wish I was blind, deaf, numb and uncaring
I wish you never made me

Why?
Why did you put me here?!
What did we do to you?
I wish I knew what to say!

Why?
Every time life turns good and gets better
You smash it all to bits and pieces
You rip and tear and shred me apart
Again and again and again!!

I know why
God help me I know why
It leaves me beaten, battered, discarded and defeated
Alone . . .
Always alone in the end
I don’t want to know why anymore
Take it away
You can do it if you try

 
Why?
I cannot stop myself from know why
And these words sound hollow empty like me
Why not me and not other
It was I who stole and ripped asunder
A world, a life, ahhhhh I curse you!!!!!
Not them, not him, not her . . 
Me
Just me

Why?
Can’t you . . .
Just go away and leave us be
Why can’t I cry for anyone or anything

Why?
Would someone please tell me
Please
What good is a heart and soul anyway?
You break and take them both away all the time
You bastard!!

Why?
Ask me why I don’t believe in you!
Ask me again why I believe I live in hell!

Why . . ?
Just tell me why . . .


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Bell's Blues (Conclusion)

     Today, I had a chance to ask his widow, Laurie, about this story.  She 
confirmed that it did happen, and he came home from work that day excited, and 
told her and their 3 daughters about the event.
     And sure enough, shortly thereafter, the song became a hit on the radio, and 
M.T.V., in those ancient days when they actually played music.
     This news brightened my day considerably, and I'm happy to share it with you; 
so when you next hear that song, remember my good buddy, Mark Trotiner, the 
uncredited genius behind it.
                                          tom bell


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Bell's Blues

Staring, vapor locked, at my Hammond B-3 console organ, which dominates my 
kitchen.  Surely a symbol of my madness.  I can't help, but think, if the keys were 
the days of my life, and the black ones represented the bad days, are there 
enough black keys??  Fighting petulance, self-pity...losing...
     Wondering if I can stand another minute alone.  Atop my organ, music books, 
and the complete works of Edgar Allan Poe, another mad poet.
     Plagued by physical agonies that merely complete a perfect circle of anguish 
and distress.  Even to worrying of misspelling a word again.  Pure lunacy.
     Remembrance of my 1863 death at Missionary Ridge, something I became 
aware of as a young child before I'd ever heard of reincarnation.  Or just an early 
sign of the madness to come??
     I am lost in a befouling miasma of deep despair.  My life's hopes down to 2 
desires;  one last music band, and taking my son to Disneyworld.  Money is 
meaningless to me.
     I am well aware that death is as natural as life.  And I would venture to guess 
that the loss of my father, my young cousin Billy, my dear friend Mark Trotiner, and 
too many others, are "Business As Usual" in this universe.  But not for me.
     Being terminally ill myself is something I have long since come to terms with.  
And what a reunion it will be!!  But I must continue to go on surviving as though I 
cherish this long and barren life.
     My writing, especially my poetry, my poet friends, my music, my musician 
friends, and a few relatives and others; these are the meds that work for me; not 
the 30 or so pills I must deal with everyday.  So thank you all.
And now an addendum, one which brightened my day:
     Mark Trotiner long maintained that he gave Mark Knoffler (Dire Straights) the 
idea for his hit song "Money For Nothing", when Mark Knoffler came into the 
appliance chain store he worked in way back then, where he bought, and drove 
off with several T.V.s, singing the prototype words he'd gotten from Mark Trotiner.  
Over the years, I tested him repeatedly, looking for the tale-tell deviation in the 
story one finds in a false tale.  He never faltered, he never failed.
    Continued.....


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Somebody's Baby

Somebody’s Baby, lie still 
Embalmed in pure white cotton, 
Cocooned securely, like the babe in arms 
within the shroud. 
Seraphim cavort no more upon a form  
once touched with shades of youthful innocence.

Somebody’s Baby, be sure.
Your time for dreams now spent,
No future beckons only time captured frame by frame,
Frozen in vulgar technicolor;
Close Up; Explicit, depicting genre yet unclassified;
The epic over exposed.
 
Somebody's Baby, be silent.
Grey and gnarled  imposter in the cot
Metamorphosis contrives a landscape dry and gnarled.
No more seductress of tender ministry;
Solitary, silently; endures the travesty
Of human demise.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I wish, Oh I wish

A huge monstrous olive tree not giving shade nor bearing fruits, existing in pains and disappointments together with the others, they live is the exact expression of my grieve. Too hypocritical in being aggressive and defeated by the contraceptive of my try condemn and make me believe I'm failure's chief executive. How am I to know that every attempt completed is success' eve? How am I to know that more failure is effective? How am I to know that I ought to be vigilant and be patient like a detective? faulting the situation, myself I deceive and landing in this mess surely wasn't my motive I should have been more creative instead of staying sensitive to my senses and searching for palliative methods of scoring my goal. I shouldn't have used my cognitive functions this way, perceiving challenges as dangers always attentive to the red light when it is in fact yellow. Running away, when the push seems less attractive and summing up the crash to be definitive. For all these years the agony has been an adhesive to my soul. comparative to a privileged bridegroom who outslept his wedding to an undeserving bride. As descriptive as that, mine is even more corrosive. Now I pay taxes to sadness and my regret more lucrative than ever before as nature chooses my heart to be the dwelling place of sorrow keeping my self-ruin well preserved. I've tried to turn back time I've tried to apply similar energy and pretense is now my best talent but all I get is NOTHING! I'm only left with wishes a million times have I made them and a million times more I'll proclaim them but they will all stand as cup-bearers to my constant regrets. as I forever say........ I wish! Oh I wish!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Only Friend

In the iron grey days of the 1950's change changed everything, good or bad,
Tom, who was the local coal-man for this area, a hard man of steel but kind,
He tried to speak but no words would come, he just pointed, on to the road,
Following his gesture, outside was a new motor lorry for his rounds, no horse.

In broken and heart wrenching sobs, he said, they had taken away my old horse,
He's been sold to another firm and I will never see him again, he's gone away,
Tom loved that horse, his life was built around it, morning evenings, weekends,
In his own time Tom would trim and groom that horse, it was his closest friend.

They never said me that my dearest friend was going I had no time to say goodbye,
He's probably in a new place now waiting for me to come and take him back home,
I know that horse he is my only family, I bet he is really worried he will so sad
He probably thinks I have deserted him because I don't love him that's not true.

I bet he is in a stable, his big brown eyes moist looking around all the time,
Any door that opens he will think it is me, he will be excited then really hurt,
He will miss our long talks together in the evenings he used to nod his long face,
He will be in a panic, like me, waiting for his dad who will never see him again.

A strong man who carried tons of coal everyday he had no family only his horse,
Brought up in a state run home never lucky enough to be picked by any families,
His horse was his friend who new all of Toms deepest secrets, tears and sorrows,
Tom left his new lorry where it stood, with heart wrenching sobs he walked away.
I watched him go, there was nothing I could say there was a painful lump in my throat.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Controlling Men: Physically, Mentally, and Verbally Abusive Men

All men (the loser boyfriends/husbands) think that it's their right to be physically, mentally, and verbally abusive toward their female companions (girlfriends/wives), well they're wrong. Most guys are always beating their girlfriends/wives up every single day just because they didn't make their men dinner, do chores around the house, or whatever. It seems that these womanizing losers are way better than their women. Actually, they're not; they're idiots. Controlling these women and being physically, mentally, and verbally abusive toward them don't make these Neanderthals men; they're like childish cowards. All guys think that they're the only breadwinners in their families and the women aren't. But guess what--they're not; some of them don't have jobs. And does anyone knows what gets on my nerves? Men always cheating on their girlfriends/wives with other women, getting them pregnant, and not taking care of the children they already have. And those controlling, abusive men, they're always telling their female spouses/lovers what to do, what to eat, where to look, and who to talk to. I mean, who are these womanizing losers to judge other men and to boss these women around? I mean, who does that? Everybody doesn't even know why they'd bother spending the rest of their lives with those abusive idiots. This whole saying by these controlling abusive men have been getting on everybody's nerves and my nerves, as well: "You're-not-to-speak-unless-spoken-to," this "You're-not-to-talk-to-your-family" ordeal, this whole "You're-not-to-have-guy-friends," and this whole "You need me! You're nothing without me! You have no money! You have no friends! Everything's in my name: the house, the cars, clothes, everything I own! You're useless! You're worthless! I own you for life! And you will respect me!" Where I come from, the rest of us nicer guys, we treat our women with the respect they rightfully deserve. The last time I checked, the mothers have raised their sons to treat women and other people with respect, but they now know where they've gone wrong with those womanizing clowns. My suggestion for the women is for them to leave their abusive husbands/boyfriends before it's too late because if they don't, they'll end up in the hospital or the morgue. To be honest, these women, they never should've met, let alone dated or married those abusive men to begin with. And if these abusive men think that they can control those women forever, they've got another coming.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dreamer

Close your eyes for awhile my friend, I heard there lies a moon far behind the black sky, I heard lovers were dancing beneath, can you hear them singing? I can feel their tipsy steps making rhymes on floor, and smell of perfumes filling the air, I heard a sun rises to brighten up their world, and birds do sing them charming melodies at morning, they say they have roses in colors and beautiful trees in the streets, and have they told you about the sea yet? They say it smells so wonderful and the delicate air of seas caresses their cheeks with soft wet breezes, oh my friend, what have we seen in the dark but the fragile ghosts that we are!

“Hush” whispered to me, “I lighted up a moon inside my heart and I smell lilies and jasmine in my nose, my dreams play tunes my heart dance on, they speak to me all night and there I see a starry night floats above, I feel the warmth of a sun in my soul as it hugs tight, whispering to me hymns of love and joy, lightening candles for hopes which had accompanied me amongst the dark, why have you closed your eyes my friend? Look through the colorful roses I painted for you with eyes wide open, let the lights off so you would see clearer, let the lights off so you can brighten up the world that hides with you, for my friend, what have we seen in the dark but the free spirits that we have become!


* If you enjoyed this piece, follow the link and share your thoughts
http://echoes19.wordpress.com/2013/01/22/dreamer-2/


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The color of love

Without him beside me, my future seems so bleak, being naïve, 
i was told he was not meant for me. Ignoring this world of cruelty
and its power tear our world apart. Now sitting i ponder why I being so naïve from the very start

My tomorrow will never come, for I will forever live in his yesterday. Turning my back on the one who loved me in every single way.
Not even time can heal a shattered heart, but I guess somewhere in his heart he loved me after all

Many times I’ve dreamt of him and unable to hide my tears,
As I reminisce that sad day I decide we go our separate ways,
I pinch myself, as in a dream, knowing it is not true,
How could I let go of such a man, no woman would ever do.

I remember the look in his eyes when he dropped by and found my note. Pain crippled on his face leaving such a heart in pain, as he read along “My heart is with you but I will forever be alone, never will you and I share a place of our own. Rejected by all to cross the color line thinking my love is blind".

 If again such a love should come my way, I’d break free of those dark days I’d confess my true heart and reject the rest and  break through this racial barrier and fallow my lovers path wherever he lead to ease this heart that beat to grieve.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

the strength of death

O death!!! Why is the 
reason behind your actions 
unknown
Where can our oceans meet
That l may accuse you of 
injuctice and wickedness
Why does your action 
transform vibrancy to 
nothing but dust.
Why, why but why?
Why leaving the 
condemned to commit 
more atrocities and 
montrousness
The just spend but a 
moment
This may be because you 
don't want them to have a 
hard taste of corruption
Through your actions;
Homes are broken,
Hearts are divided,
Tears and pains abound
Think, think, thinkless death


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Grandad's Missing

There's a void, now
Where once a steadfast heart beat time
The soul in perfect harmony with life's uncertain pulse
With those who clambered eagerly in solace or in joy
To scale that mighty pinnacle
The Rock, within the bosom of the family

There's a void, now
But marvel at the structure, the firmness of the ground beneath
The strata richly layered with wisdom of generations past
A fault free seam constructing firm foundations
Binding those within the bosom of the family

There's a void, now
A hollow cavern 
echoing the anger and the pain
Trust time; it has no fear of finite elements
The source of unremitting pain
Within the bosom of the family

There's a void, now
So fill the emptiness and catalogue the memories
Harvesting the richness of their meaning
The fullness of the seed sown long ago
To bloom forever within the bosom of the family


Details | Prose Poetry | |

What's the point?

What’s the point 
in living
When death awaits
What’s the point 
in breathing
When you can not 
feel the 
swelling of your 
lungs
What’s the point 
in love
When you heart 
only aches
What’s the point 
of being in a 
state of 
awareness 
When you are not 
really alive
What’s the point 
in doing your 
best 
When it is 
rarely 
acknowledged
What’s the point 
in making all 
happy
When you are sad
What’s the point 
in smiling 
When your heart 
bleeds
And that colgate 
smile
never touches 
your eyes
What’s the point
in anything?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Here Comes Winter Again

Here it comes again; softly knocking on windows at 2A.M, here comes the winter at a cold silent night, awakening my soul with the smell of dust after rain, the smell of mom holding me into bed, with the voices of my sisters playing next room, here it comes again with painful delights, here it comes again taking me back home.

Let the drops of rain knock on my door and let them ache my heart, let me taste the sweet smell in my tongue like a little boy getting wet beneath the rain, waiting to be rebuked, but none of this does matter because the burdens of life are slipping down with the rains being drifted on his coat, none of this does matter because the weight of life was just not this cold before.

Here comes the winter with empty corners in my head and echoes of laughters in my room, a piece of chocolate I can no longer find and a broken toy I’ve never thrown away, with good sweaters that never felt warm on a cold night like this, let the chilly breezes of winter take me back home again, to smell my father’s smoking cigarettes and my mother combing my hair, and the smell of coffee beans on one cloudy morning to refresh my day, oh here comes the winter, remembering me again and stopping by with few memories to take me home.

Check out my writings at:
http://echoes19.wordpress.com


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Suicidal Voodoo

Chase the voodoo to sleep. sleepless freaks i see in the silver screens blocking the vision of me. there's no choice but to eliminate hate inundating the mind. please mute the voices haunting the airwaves making me blind. the big bad budding burden flashing red lights at every intersection. stealing away the insight i try to gain by using time for reflection.

It's a mess the way i test myself with deranged prophecies and bleak scenarios. replaying horror flicks in my head. blasting screams in stereo. all too often the worm hole shoots me to a mid evil castle of torturous devices. impaled in dreams that seem to be broadcasting punishment for succumbing to the world's entice and vices. but other times i fall victim to a good old fashioned "day-mare". people notice the self conversations and can't help but laugh and stare. I must say it's becoming difficult to blame them. if i can't learn to shake this voodoo, it's true my future's looking grim.

What do I do? they're gonna end up arresting me! Toss my ass in a padded room and throw away the key! and get this...as i worry about getting sent away, the paranoia increases inside my head. i reach for medication increasing odds of ending up prematurely dead. I may be crazy, but don't take me for an idiot fool. and don't haze me about where my faith is, cus' this could just as soon be you. and i've learned enough to know that each and every one of us will die. and you may take me as insane, but me not taking my own life's got nothing to do with having a fear to fry. 

This is exactly why i choose to write as my mind fills up with crazy thoughts and throws fits. it's a therapy for me to try and work out all the kinks that make me sink, instead of cowardly throwin' in the towel n' calling it quits.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

TONIGHT by Anna Lo P

..The clock ticks, the Time pass
  Coffee I sip, as I taste, Alas!
  One more cigarette, almost up,
  What else is with me, me, still up!

  Waiting for the green light
  Beside your name in chat
  This computer, is already hot
  It's been on, since I last woke up!

  I don't know, I don't care,
  If they say, I look like a scare
  Eyes that look like of an owl
  Since I've been up like a fowl!

  To write another piece
  Of my sadness, of my tears
  The songs I always play
  Make my heart feel in dismay!

  Up all day till night
  Because my heart is in fright
  Will he then tell me"it's not alright"
  That is something I need to fight!

  Oh my! please give me a sign
  To be in sorrow, or should I be fine?
  It feels I'm running out of time
  That's how I feel, for all this time!

  The clock ticks, the Time pass
   Another coffee sips, I say Alas!
   Another cigarette I lit, just to be up
   What else is with me? just a memory on recap!..
  
   
    


Details | Prose Poetry | |

SET ME FREE

 I came to you because I loved you
 
I stretched my arm of friendship and you warmly welcomed me
 
And since that day, my life had undergone a metamorphic change
 
Renewed for the future with a focus of unwavering concentration
 
I gave you all I had for that moment
 
I told you all I ever knew and been through
 
I was committed to the friendship because I believed in you
 
Always saw you as some kind of heavenly angel on earthly assignment
 
But along the way I found out I was alone
 
Though I could find your body around
 
But your spirit and soul were far gone away
 
I knew I was caged because I had given my all
 
I needed someone to set me free
 
Who would set me free? For I was drawn in the ocean of love
 
 I had withdrawn every other thing except my heart of love
 
It kept longing for you, more, more and more
 
Who would set me free? Set me free.
 

(c) 2009


Details | Prose Poetry | |

What's the point?

What’s the point 
in living
When death awaits
What’s the point 
in breathing
When you can not 
feel the 
swelling of your 
lungs
What’s the point 
in love
When you heart 
only aches
What’s the point 
of being in a 
state of 
awareness 
When you are not 
really alive
What’s the point 
in doing your 
best 
When it is 
rarely 
acknowledged
What’s the point 
in making all 
happy
When you are sad
What’s the point 
in smiling 
When your heart 
bleeds
And that colgate 
smile
never touches 
your eyes
What’s the point
in anything?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ousted by None but the Night

===================
Ousted by None but the Night   
Arabic Poem by: Adnan Abu Andalus*
Translated by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_n_silk)
===============

The dusty street is bare 
Darkness there and the horizon  
As if, the night was sprinkling fear
Nothing there
But a policeman followed like a ghost
A street cat  
A wailing ambulance 
All where time is open for running
 Endlessly

Who would stroll in the range of bullets?
To come back in the morrow like a spinning top
Without a head?
 
 Who would walk alone?
 And fly off with the meekness of the past
 In Baghdad’s night?

Who would believe that AlZawraa held her lungs 
And ousted the breath of her patrons?
And that “Abu Nawas” replaced  
His last glass of wine
With a cup of black coffee?

Shahriar uttered it 
To protest shampoo ads!
Scheherazade wore the veil 
Bad boys of the night 
Shunned flirting with girls
In the Girls Street.
______
Translated December, 2012
 By: Em. Prof. Inam Al-Hashimi
USA
* Adnan Abu Andalus is a poet from Iraq
from his poetry collection  “The Smell of Doomsday”

________________________________________
 1 Knowing some of the history of ancient Baghdad may be helpful in facilitating better understanding of the poem. Baghdad was famous as the center place of the “Arabian nights” or the "Thousand and One Nights Tales" where Scheherazade, night after night, told the king Shahryar a different tale of romance and adventure to keep him from killing her in the morning.. Ancient Baghdad, nicknamed "AlZawra’a", was known for receiving, with open arms. night-patrons in joy and without fear. The poem refers to the glamorous past of Baghdad in comparison with the grim and gloomy nights of modern Baghdad after the war. In doing so, the poem mentions some symbols of the past and historical figures from old Baghdad and the Golden Age of the caliph Haroun al-Rashid (died 809 AD), and presents them in images contrary to their characters. Such figures include the licentious poet “Abu Nuwas" who wouldn’t recite poetry without being drunk. And the afore mentioned Scheherazade and Shahryar.
 ___________________________________


Details | Prose Poetry | |

DOES HE by Anna Lo P

Does he remember me?
Does he remember even a thing he said to me?
Does he think of me too?
I think yes, I think I dont know.

Does he smile when feeling sad?
Does he laugh when about to cry?
Does he feel happiness when hurt?
I think yes, I think I don't know.

Does he feel empty?
Does he feel alone?
Does he yearn for my love,
I think yes, I think I don't know.

I don't want to think anymore
I'm tired of this, I can bear no more
Tired of being tired again
I say yes, that now I know..


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Hope You Know I'll Always Love You

I am what you call a hopeless 
romantic,
But im also a lost lovers cause, my 
heart belongs to another
Yet in my head a love triangle starts 
to form, the girl I love doesn’t love 
me
She holds the heart to another and 
mine caged to the floor,
She isn’t afraid to fight for what she 
wants, not even when it comes to 
leaving another man torn
Trust me she’s happy, as that boy 
holds her heart ever so close
Seeing what I shouldn’t I smile as I 
wear my blind fold,
Blind to everything around, lifeless 
staring into air
My train of thought running so fast, 
the second I stop you’ll hear a crash
Derailing my hope, for ever finding a 
love so pure & rare
Wishing I could hold the hand of the 
lover who stole my flame,
Wish I could change the last days in 
which we parted ways,
Realizing now that we can never be 
the same
Finally saying it out loud as tears run 
down my face
You stole my happiness, as I walked 
away that day
But it’s because as of what you said 
I guessed I changed,
Now every relationship has just be 
the same,
No one can seem to bring back that 
flame,
Because a love likes ours comes 
once in a lifetime
Well at least it does to me,
But I mean you’re happy with who 
your with 
I mean I only wrote this as I heard 
exchanging “I love you” flow from 
each of your lips.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Poor's Penchant

For what am I born?
Born to consume myself?
Born to get plucked off my leaves and get torn?

Born to walk on ice and feel the numb
Born to be criticized, cursed and yet stay dumb?

A loaf of bread,
A bed on road often pitted and tread.

An earthy dust laden skinny cloth,
is what I bear, for that further makes me an entity to loath.

For who shall open his heart and speak few words of love and compassion?
For who shall disguise himself to turn meek, for a poor beggar who even can’t 
afford his own cremation?


Oh! Almighty, you owe me life of kings!
To balance thou judgment and demolish those dominant devils
Oh! Almighty you owe me royal raiment’s and ravishing rings
And make those boisterous heads droop down, as if hollow glasses 
bespattered after fallen from hills.






Details | Prose Poetry | |

FINAL BLOW by Anna Lo P

..To miss, not to miss
..A Love, not in bliss
  Tight hug, Sweet kiss 
  This one, I'll miss..

..Heart is in abyss
  Mind is in freeze 
  Body badly decrease
  Soul not in peace..  

..Time again ticks
   Like eyes that blinks
   Breath sounds like a hiss
   Must be done with this..

..It'll be the last piece
   Make it short, don't tease
   Lonely hug, Sad kiss, 
   My final blow to this...

..Don't do this,
  I say please..
  Final line is
  Just like this ...................................+
 
P.S.. I forgot, I have 9 lives, am saved by this! YES!!!
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

TO LET GO by Anna Lo P

Why can't it be US?
Why does it have to be US?
We only wanted one's happiness
We just wanted love & belongingness.

Time & place, put us in regress
Worlds apart is our test,
Of life and love, so willing to offer
Because we are different, it is US who suffer.

I want to confess all the love I can give
Myself, my all, more than you can receive
You want to confess a life you can't share
Your life and self, you think is in despair.

Now, we are both in vain and agony 
We are doomed in this love & fantasy
How to part ways without US being hurt & lost
The price of love & happiness we pay with so much cost.

Is it time to let go and bid farewell?
Wishing at the end, that we'll both be well
Is it time for us to say our hurtful goodbyes?
Last kiss, last hug, end it only with but a sigh.

I don't want to listen to the drops of rain
Each drop is our weeping, that will cause me pain,
I don't want to let go, I will stay even for a while
Because it's just too hard to say the last goodbye....







Details | Prose Poetry | |

What the hell did I do

What the hell did I do..

This question posed aggressively
now in my conscious mind.
I bury my head in my knees,
and sob relentlessly asking why,
and mumbling man you really did it this time.


Party at my place he screams,
and Man you don’t ever stop by.
These images scroll the Rolodex of my subconscious side.
Try this it will make you feel great!
You’ll have no worries for at lest the next eight.
Doesn’t that sound great!


That’s when it hit me,
like a shot straight through the heart.
I parted my metaphoric sea shore,
my arms, my legs, they are the oars.
Swimming through the blue abyss,
always watching close for shore.
Then little by little always needing more,
and more.
The hours and days went by,
oh my god how I was high.


My euphoric mind never pressed for time,
no matter the dime.
Clouds on the horizon a thunderous sky.
It was even getting late,
and the moon began to pull at the tide.
Looking back I see this was going to be a very long ride.


Pushing forward toward the shore,
limb for limb, tired and sore.
Screaming, hurry up and get here,
where out, and have got to have more.
Then the lighting began to show it’s power,
and the wind had the waves in a roar.
The rain stinging torn & chapped skin.
I began to lose consciousness, now at a merciless Drift.
Pulled way out,
fast and swift.
Their would be few that would adore.
As they wonder how long,
before I’d wash back ashore.


What the hell did I do..
This question,
posed aggressively now
in my conscious mind.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Homelands

====================
Homelands
Arabic poem by: Adel Said*
Translated into English by: 
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
=====================

At the end of the line I stand
As should a professional homeless do
Exactly at the end of the line
Before the committee on homelands distribution 
Among those who fall in the overflow
Over the needs and capacity of time, place, 
Maps, 
Population records,
And cemeteries. 

At the end of the line I stand 
Hanging like a teardrop in a funeral 
Collecting what have fallen of my years,
My fables
And my extinct dreams,
In the bundle of my childhood that missed her doll
And my deferred share of my mother’s tenderness.

I have a flavor the midwife failed to sever
With the umbilical cord
In my heart, there is still a nursery rhyme
About a duck swimming in a river
And a songs about a fair maiden’s tear dripped down with  kohl
And my fingers are still trembling
In fear of the lesson and the swish of the teacher’s ruler.

I have in the piggy bank of my life
Volumes about hunger and wars of social classes
Burned by the fascists 
Who also snuffed out the tears of forbidden love.
I have in the piggy bank of my life
Dates I saved of palm tree’s yearning for the land
And some palm pollen dust still traveling in my lungs. 

I have no signs of prophecy on my forehead 
And no halos of saints 
But my homeland that’s sitting there 
Amidst the committee on the homelands distribution
Will recognize me
And I'm in the queue 
I will not compete with the homeless comrades 
For their homelands 
And will not accept that illustrious one on the right 
And not that opulent one on the left
I’ll accept only that one,
That one whose head is a palm tree 
And whose arms are two rivers.
 
- You , O Mister!
 You who was at the end of the line,
 You haven’t been recognized
 By any of the homelands gathered in the committee,
 The exiles snuffed out your flavor
 And withered your songs;
 Despite the high level of adoration in you
 No homeland on earth
 Understands your language.

 - Even  that one? !

 - Even  that one ..
And out of pity 
We decided to grant you a berth,
A berth that will never come to an end
You will waste on it  
All that’s left in your lifetime’s piggy bank 
Of tears, 
Of dreams loitering outside the fence of life 
And of years flying, like neglected pieces of paper,
Out of the window of history! 

===========
Translated by: Em. Prof. Inaam al-Hashimi
USA
*  Adel Said is a poet from Iraq who resides in Norway


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Are You The First To Be An Ex

There are some colours that can never be repainted, marks that can never be removed and stains that can never be covered. Move on! My past loved one, don't hold unto my shoulders as though nature formed us together. We've once crossed that bridge but even before reaching its middle we had crashed into the river and were swallowed by the rocks of its depth. Do you remember, at first we built a garden coloured in trust and grassed with unbelievable care? But we converted it into an Oven where love and hate mix and our problems; I'm the only one trying to fix. Unfortunate episodes of our heated drama was already counting at thirty and six. The beautiful songs of our hearts we remix as sadness and anger feasts. Why shouldn't I leave and prevent my heart from an avoidable accident? But you stick around only to suffer from self torture. My new and bright countenance makes you wanna have sex with other male colleagues, I flex. It's barely two weeks that makes you perplexed well; it's your problem b'cos I'm not bothered if you're vexed. Are you the first to be an ex? Just move on, my dear past lover! It will be the height of folly and the worship of loneliness if you visit our world again.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

GOODBYE by Anna Lo P

I still think why things had ended
between our love, which I now try to hate,
I succumbed myself into this despair 
of wanting you back, which you also hate.

Psyche oneself that I can make it
this lonely battle of heart, can i fake it?
repeatedly in disarray thoughts
God I hope I could say it's just a hoax.

People around, will you please tell me
is it wrong to fight for this love I believe?
or shall I say is it right to surrender
because it's something merely perceived.

Ya, Ya, Ya, I did get it
don't insist no more, got it?..



Details | Prose Poetry | |

You Danced With Me Tonight

You danced with me tonight underneath the starry sky, You held my hands tenderly and I felt I could fly. Suddenly I felt how it was like to be your girl, Never minding if the surroundings were in a swirl. But gravity pulled me down from the clouds very fast, And the fall shattered my heart into thousands like glass. So I held you tight, never desiring to let go, Let go of this moment that I have been waiting for. Knowing that the tune will stop and this dance will end soon, I wanted very much to wrap my arms around you And tell you I'm just here waiting to be loved by you. Love, even though I knew that I could never do so, It was greatly enough for me to just hold you tight. Let me hold you tight just for this dance, just for tonight.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Golden Fertility of the Harvest

He is the sinking of the final red orange sun of the glowing summer 
Warmth no longer oozing and seeping into the pores as I lie bare under the skies 
Jeweled dewdrops on the morning grass to dampen bare feet all softness under  
And the shimmer on the surface of the lakes like the diamonds in your eyes 

He is the golden cusp pf Autumn's Fertility 
The ritual dance of the scarecrow in the breezes 
(Straw coming loose and flying towards you, most certainly 
will brush up against you and tickle before he ceases)  
 
And this thinner less lumpy all seeing scarecrow  
Seems to be in no remorse: his knowing face will always grin  
And his arms will always be raised in a wave to show 
He will protect the yellow brown stalks that bend before him 
 
He is the crisp wind that caresses the crinkled foliage 
Their rustling like long flowing skirts on a 1940s ballroom floor 
These winds chill the fingers and toes and your face with the stinging red roses  
Yet when winter beckons the retreating light, we will be frozen at its core 

He is silent snowfalls and many winter moons  
And the brown earth beginning to expose itself  
The uncoiling of green and mud beginning to ooze  
And all new life breaking free from its fragile shell


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Why So Sad

Why So Sad?

Why do you look lonely, 
Bereft and so, so sad?
Has someone been quite nasty? 
Have you been really bad?

What lies beyond your haunted eyes,
Your melancholy stare?
Do you want to tell me what it is?
Do you want to take me there?

Your doleful gaze cements your face,
Your shoulders hanging low.
Do you want to tell me what it is?
Or would you prefer that I go?

I stand transfixed, absorbing your pain,
My breath is quick and light.
Do you want to tell me what it is?
What causes your terrible plight?

What demons grasp your very soul?
Why do they steal your smile?
Do you want to tell me what it is?
This cruel and evil bile.

Can you see through your vacant gaze?
Do you know that I am here?
Do you want to tell me what it is?
And explain what monsters are near?

What has sucked the life from you?
Who have you become?
Do you want to tell me what it is?
What nefarious deed has been done?





Details | Prose Poetry | |

Trains

=============================
Trains 
Arabic Poem by: Abdulsadah Al-Basri
Translated into English by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
=============================
  In the book of our lives, 
  The trains wrote their eternal epic
  And kept taking our names 
  Embroidering stories and tales around them
  Train for travelers 
  Trains of goods 
  Trains for the wounded 
  Trains for soldiers going to war 
  Trains of death 
  Trains for convicts 
  Trains of prisoners of war
  Trains for water 
  Trains for inspecting stations 
  Trains for lighting
  Trains faster than life 
  Trains ... 
  Trains ... 
  Trains .... 
 And the trains are telling the story of a dream 
  Perhaps in the memory .

  the poem was written in 1999 and published in yr. 2000 in the poet’s second collection titled   ??????  (Topography) .
--------------
 Translated into English by: Em. Prof. Inaam Al-Hashimi
 * Abdulsadah Al-Basri is a poet from Iraq


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Untouchable Hearts

Lustful hearts are too hot to hold And depressed ones are just too cold, These dear old hearts can't be touched Even if they find someone they love too much, It'll never be propper... it'll never be right Even if they find pleasure in physical delight, No but these hearts must change if they hope to be held and find the illusion that they could be held... dispelled.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Wore That Yesterday

The same frown...
The same sad face...
The same dismay
 over and over ..

You said the same
mean words to hurt me. 
Today I choose
 to wear smiles.
I have come miles 
since yesterday!  
The happiness I felt...
The freedom 
I have now since you
 left and went away; 
Please in fact 
don't come back! 
Putting me down-
Wanting to see me
with that same
 sad face,with
that same 'ole frown. 
The same dismay.  
I cant wear t
hose feelings 
anymore no way
.
For I wore 
that yesterday.  
No complaints,
self esteem  
has risen.  
It feels good to be free
from your 
verbal prison. Nope-  
I am wearing a smile,
enjoying my new freedom.
No frown-no
feeling down-no dismay.  

Cant wear that outfit,
feeling like a misfit,see 
I wore that
yesterday! ....     
No way can you 
taunt or daunt 
my spirit or 
depress my spiritual side.
No more can you 
appall or terrify 
or fill me up with 
apprehensions.  
I am free ! 
No longer disabled;
 so ring the alarm-
I wont respond,
I have the courage,
the courage to say.I
am not wearing 

those feelings of dismay,
I wore them yesterday.
 So say what 
you must and do
what you will;
 My spirit has 
traveled far from you.     
Today is my day.
So don't come back
to try and dress me in
that old tired suite,
made by Mr. Dis-May ....
I don't wear that
label anymore ...  
I wore that yesterday.

End Poem


Details | Prose Poetry | |

letters to Mary

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Things To Give Away

Tarny was a little bear 
A teddy bear he be 
Coat was as white as snow 
To this we all agree 
. 
Tarny was a Christmas gift 
Given to a lady fair 
Was sent by her Tarnished Knight 
How she wished that he was there 
. 
Tarny wore a little coat 
Where pinned upon his sleeve 
A note from her Tarnished Knight 
Said "will you read me please " 
. 
"Sorry I can't be with you 
On this Christmas day 
I know its very hard for you 
That I'm so far away" 
. 
"So I am sending Tarny 
For you to now embrace 
I will be there very soon 
Then I will take his place" 
. 
"Tarny has a special gift 
He'll make your dreams come true 
Just close your eyes and make a wish 
You will see what he can do" 
. 
Tears now flowed from her eyes 
Squeezing Tarny oh so tight 
Closed her eyes and made wish 
To dream of the Tarnished one tonight 
. 
That was some time ago 
In another Christmas past 
Once there was hopes and dreams 
Somehow they didn't last 
. 
Tarny now is put away 
Never sees the light of day 
Shares a space with odds and ends 
In box of " things to give away" 
. 
Fleece once of snow flake white 
Now has stains of crimson red 
Came from a broken heart 
Oh! how Tarny bled 
. 
So if you find a little bear 
Slightly stained in red 
May not be a teddy 
But this Tarnished Knight instead 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

-Needs a title. I will probably think of one later on.-

There is a single rose

kept high in the vase of her memories

she eyes thee rose with despair and sorrow

circles around and walks away.


The rose withers and petals fall

she comes back but has the same thought.

Picks up the withering rose, she starts to dance

circles around and around with the rose balanced in her palm.

-she stops-

she starts to cry and she sees streaks of blood fall from her palm

the thorns dig deep

her tears reach her collar

darkness falls, then drags her deep in it's depths.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Invisible Man 8

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


The Invisible Man has one jewel! Nature
There is no world without the beauty of nature,
So what is left when these gifts have left a bitter man?
Would it be hell, pain, permanent punishment?
Or the deepest darkest prison with no light.
Deep in my dreams I can remember the word kindness,
But it is only a word, one I have never understood nor met,
Would kindness walk hand in hand with nature?
Would it be a different emotion away from hate and revenge?
Was there once a word called gentleness?
From a time that some people cared?
No! There cannot be, because nobody cares,
Another legend from stories long time past.
So what happened to those long gone emotions?
Selfishness has taken up his sword and struck them down,
Did it also cut down the word friendliness?
What would it have been like to have a friend?
Come with me along a road, I built it myself,
Experience fear, black corners, black tunnels, strangeness,
The grass is coarse, trees lining my road are very wrong,
Listen to the whispers, from nobody, nowhere, hissing hate.
Conspicuous, and unwanted, taunts of filth and disgust,
Cold, icy, razor sharp swords lightly cut exposed parts,
I hear mourning, weeping, great anguish, I think it's my own,
I am tired, can't rest, I am too petrified to sleep.
The road is danger, I know some thing unthinkable waits,
For a weakness to show maybe hunger, maybe, compassion,
Evil walks my road silent, glaring bitter revenge at me,
But the real evil is a cowardliness, I cannot escape.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Flame Melds So Slick the Shadows

Brown black centipedes crawl from within the white washed walls  
Their shadows, creeping and quick, are cast througout the halls  
Echoing thoughts bring a crashing sound to my ears, clattering  
Music buried deep evokes what my mind hears, shattering  
 
Rumpled white sky drifts like a melting glacier, carved flat  
Or floats like a wiffle ball hit by this Summer game's yellow bat  
Like this golden silver streak that now threads the monet-like sky  
Emerging fire I behold with my stupored, half-shut eyes 

The breeze tickles my doughy molded face with the stinging red roses  
After a day journeying inward, my shelled body reposes  
Encased like a cracked but unbroken nut, fading after the sun has ripened  
And this hummus colored sun, now amber rose as it sinks, spreads the horizon  

And the surrounding land, its bumpy rough edges and valleys, is slowly widening  


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Past and Present

Walking down memory lane,
Reminiscing everything with haze,
With all that had been before,
And what it has become of now.

The wind the way it used to rage,
And how it turned into a craze,
All the flowers that blossomed before,
Have now, withered to the core.

The once bright and clear rays,
That fell and lit up every place,
And now a dull beam of light,
Where it falls, no one knows.

The shadows behind us all the way,
Being there whether sad or gay,
Leaving us now and going astray,
Where they will go, is unknown till this day.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

TRUE MR RIGHT OR MR WRONG

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Look in me

Have you ever watched me cry
Night after night
Behind these doors?
Have you ever noticed
My teary eyes
As we drive back home?
Everynight?
What I need is someone
To lift me up
As I sink in the
Abyss  of hopelessness.
I told you, I am not strong
Just my dreams are stronger
But you keep crushing them
They would never be true,
You say, so little chance
Live with the ordinary 
Cause that’s what life is about
My heart struggles to accept this
But, how can I disobey you?
Have I ever? 
I only disagree.
What I need is not you
You say, find someone new
But how could I? 
Don’t you see the chains
Formed the day, I gave myself
To you?
My goals are not so noble
Just ambitious
Dream to change the world 
In a way you never did
But how can I do so?
You look down
On everyone else who did.
How can I but want to
Yearn your hate and not your admiration?
Your love
For which I left everything
I ever owned.
For a world which was never mine or would be!
Don’t you see, how I am dying
Inside, day after day?
Sleepless nights into endless days
Into desperation
And hopelessness
Killing me, slowly.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

THE ANNIHILATION OF UKRAINIANS

THE ANNIHILATION OF UKRAINIANS
Kyrie was struggling to overcome barriers of demarcation. “Holodomor” she was facing. This artificial famine was brutally taking Ukrainians lives. In nineteen hundred and twenty-nine, the manifestation of human hate crimes would be a terrorist regime. The screens Kyrie would experience would became life threatening. “Death by hungry” was in all eyes. Eighty years has passed. Soviet Joseph Stalin’s massacre transpired. From nineteen hundred and thirty-two thru nineteen hundred and thirty-three the Soviet regime took seven million lives. Kyrie and her brother Allah was blessed to survive. The story is her father died early on. Her mother walked far to find food. She would exchange her earnings and a gold pendant she wore on her dress just for a sack of flour and nothing else. She formed the flour into a loaf of bread, which tasted liked grass. Tears forms knowing this was all her and her children had. Wretchedness it is to know that too many peopled did not have anything at all to eat. To genocide was an atrocity. A silent wasteland of God’s people must be exposed. Ukrainians today discloses. _________________________| PENNED ON AUGUST 25, 2014!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Away

Mostly I care about my heart 
But always crush my heart
I don’t want to know if there is anyone for me
Just sad for losing everything who was for me
All things going wrong out of that

Away! Away! Away! Away!
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Time Heals All Wounds, But It Doesn't Rid The Scars

Faith lost, love failed All because of what's unveiled. And in this pain I have been jailed. It was not you, it was all me And no one else will ever see How these things all came to be But now it's lost, now it's gone I watch the sky for signs of dawn Yet I never played you as my pawn. I hid in dark, I hid in lies I kept it all from dark brown eyes I now await for harsh goodbyes. No one will see, no one will hear The reasons I held these secrets dear Yet visions' still blurred by means of tears I watched you rise, I watched you grow And that's why you did not know The deceit I had yet to show. It was your laugh, it was your smile That kept me quiet all the while Trudging every single mile You own my soul, you own my heart I can not bear for us to part Let me help the healing start I am a human, I am a girl And mistakes come about and whirl Causing rivers of silver pearls You do not believe, you do not trust This healing process is a must The reliance will rise up from the dust It will take long, it will take time And many, many clocks will chime Until our love's back in it's prime I love you now, I love you forever Please let us spend it all together I want to part not now, not ever.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Once Promising Youth

Like you are caught in a highway 
Heavy traffic in a sunny morning 
Waiting and hoping and dreaming
You’ll reach the seashore soon enough 
See the light shimmering on the Sea waves.
Like a person hoping for good news
Dreams give the Sloth hour two wings.

No, not like the feeling of that 
Being surrounded by fellow men
With understanding.

No, no hope, no dream, no nothing.

Rather like being caught in a highway 
Under the will of someone you cannot see
Under the whim of someone you cannot ask
Under the wish of someone who understands
What you don’t understand and that you understand not.
Too many question you ask I see.
Questions makes you bleak-heart

Yes you are Caught in a highway 
Under the scorching sun. 
Shining on the highway  
Highway endless like a tongue of an unknown giant 
Whose wistfulness only makes you move
And may be if He wishes when He wishes
You are signaled to move.

You’ll reach the sea at last may be,
To watch it with your bleak heart.
Only to find the sea that you can
See no more 
Because the dreamless waiting has made you blind
Only darkness mingle with Death of the Sky 
And Sun and Time and You, the Once Promising Youth.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Pitter Patter

Woke up this morning to the pitter patter of raindrops
Thought it was your heart beating next to mine
But alas, it was only the raindrops beating on my window sill
That had given me false hope of your presence
When I reached out you weren't there

So sad ..So sad ..So sad 

Pitter patter …Pitter patter…Pitter patter …………


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Encompassed in Memory

Cool mountain streams reflect the cobalt blues and greys of sky 		   
Restful twilight with stars scattered as if on a canvas 		   
Fire cloaks the curve of the earth and golden fish swim nearby 		   
Weeping willows in the field sway to an urgent sadness 		   
The gushing wind that stirs etches the land, channels through boundless time 		   
The carved thrust of a mountain range, maybe the Andes 		   
Will challenge the forever yielding sky, vast as the horizon 		   
Where rain batters the window and mists as far as we can see 		   
It is a warm evening in a pub in Ireland 		   
As the songs hover around us, I know this is what it is like to be free


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Only Friend

In the iron grey days of the 1950's change changed everything, good or bad,
Tom, who was the local coal-man for this area, a hard man of steel but kind,
He tried to speak but no words would come, he just pointed, on to the road,
Following his gesture, outside was a new motor lorry for his rounds, no horse.

In broken and heart wrenching sobs, he said, they had taken away my old horse,
He's been sold to another firm and I will never see him again, he's gone away,
Tom loved that horse, his life was built around it, morning evenings, weekends,
In his own time Tom would trim and groom that horse, it was his closest friend.

They never said me that my dearest friend was going I had no time to say goodbye,
He's probably in a new place now waiting for me to come and take him back home,
I know that horse he is my only family, I bet he is really worried he will so sad
He probably thinks I have deserted him because I don't love him that's not true.

I bet he is in a stable, his big brown eyes moist looking around all the time,
Any door that opens he will think it is me, he will be excited then really hurt,
He will miss our long talks together in the evenings he used to nod his long face,
He will be in a panic, like me, waiting for his dad who will never see him again.

A strong man who carried tons of coal everyday he had no family only his horse,
Brought up in a state run home never lucky enough to be picked by any families,
His horse was his friend who new all of Toms deepest secrets, tears and sorrows,
Tom left his new lorry where it stood, with heart wrenching sobs he walked away.
I watched him go, there was nothing I could say there was a painful lump in my throat.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My In Heritage

To know your history is to know your literature a lesson to learn, which will Stand the test of time and what one founds of their in heritage no matter how enduring and grim it may seem it something you should embrace- I came from a small city with big roots and routinely I was ask “where are you from”, especially from girls, if it wasn’t that it he thinks he cutie? And I’m asking why I would say something like that. Or He thinks him smart, God!!! I’m just answer the teacher question? But when I got older, older woman told me they probably think that ascent was sexy and I’m thinking where in high school what do they know about sexy? Man is her computer seat warm? America woman I just don’t understand them? I wonder what they do if they heard me speak a few difference language at same time? Thank god I’m quite because it not like they can read my mind. But it got me thinking from and questioning My Roots- What I found was the name Borgo had many difference Ethnicity & meaning with it as well as nationalities and that Borgo is Small Island between France and Italy. And if history may not mention it was a Borgia who captured Napoleon? How do I know where did it take place? BorgoBaby- No wonder I like Caribbean woman and it is this one that get my heart beat beating up to 400 beats per seconds if that is possible I can’t say it is a forbidden love but what I will say is breaking the ice and melt when think out loud? And yes she knows my name but why ask not why but why are some lyrics so deep my dear? Remember some old friends asking don’t you make beats? As I have some bread and tea. And that Bourbon is a drink, a Pecan Pie and a Street I’m thinking man if I have girlfriend What date it would be- Then I dig deeper and found the prime sources that seem to let to these events the Borgia or borja married into royalty which happen to be Louisa Borgia who married Philp De Bourbon or Philip V of Spain. He was rejected as King Louis legitimate son because born out of wedlock but later accepted but Philp never forgave and where he could have been both king of France and Spain he was just the king of Spain. Question I ask do any one know today the real reason why France has no nationality? Hurtfully to write or hear but i heritage mean full name as should other take to one, I have heard rumors that true bloodlines of nations of Kings that don’t rightfully take the throne it is a reason for that but not my place to say the way history is written is just to say to remember men wrote history but literature holds another tell? Who can tell the differences, but one question for god I always ask Why so much war my lord, I truly feel like a man without a country and Just walking away- I myself never came from money I start literally from nothing but as I got older I was given legitimate connection legitimate ideas and principals and the understanding of wealth but so trying of spending night and days with no day off of a seven day week wonder if I can make those principals work for me as sick as I am there are reason undefined why I do this things and money is not the endorsement my life is more complication then eye may receive to capture but if you listen you learn more than just hand written if you get the drift- I was never told of my in heritage put as one will it something like a scare or tattoo I had to found to adjust to my nick name is “Jason” but my full name is Louis Antonio Borgo III as I’m about to fall to sleep and lost all aim of conscience I see a email with my full name spell out in Ancestry.com question how did they know I was search for them and if I ever be accepted from this other half as I am a man literally without a country and in love with French woman more than American the phone rings and a woman from Canada called speaking French I drop the phone and finally I fall to sleep and As I sleep dreaming could anyone imagine wanting to go home but where? Remembering the ringing noise of girls ask ” where are you from”...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Confetti of Flesh

 
Would I rather go too slow,

Damp breath feeding the soil, 

worms to grow, an

old mans toil.

 

For me the answer is clear;

Though not today and I hope not here – 

To explode with love and feelings gold – 

Not too young and not too old

Wise enough to see my growth

But not old enough to have outgrown 

My sprit, 

Fun,

this place called home

That’s how to die

 

A confetti of flesh ruptures the Sky.

Feeding the air, water and earth.

Why you ask do I care how I die –

My love, that is the whole reason -

We’re here

to ask why.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Two Minutes Too Late and the Clock Struck June.

We fell, two miles too far down to count the days ahead...

Two hours too late for me to forgive myself, I kissed him in the morning when the clock
struck...

five...

and tears covered me in a bath of fear...

I asked him if he knew, if he understood, as he mumbled and held me in his sleep.


Two days passed and I watched the sunset, I found it far

too

hot

to breathe.


I wondered, as I circled, as I watched him in memories, as I watched his face glow and fade...

I wondered where the comfort of January ran...

I wondered if he swallowed it as I brushed my tongue across his open mouth when he
whispered the promises I knew, even then, 

he wouldn't keep.


And hope was funny, she stayed by my side for two months plus three, I found myself waking
up in May, amidst the lilacs and unusual heat, I wanted to close my eyes and let my lashes
fall down as they tickled tomorrow so maybe..

he'd see...

but obsessions are addictions and he had an affiliation with the color blue.


“I love you,” I told him, with eyes wide open when the clock struck two...but I was three
months too late and my heart
held onto January
for the fear
of sight
in
June.



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Trees of a Dreary Autumn

Trees of a Dreary Autumn 
Arabic poem by: Saad Yassin Yousuf*
Translated into English by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
========================
 

At a light
Said to be "dawn" We got to the shoulder of the Sea book;
Our wrecked boats were floating 
As wood stained by bloody waves,
Heads of children slaughtered
By the voracity of a false 
Prophet, Eyes yearning farther than the kingdom of light,
Wooden pencils robbed of their sun color,
Withered flowers,
Pictures of palm trees, standing
Drunk on the cliff, waving to other banks,
Butterflies that lost their color of light, 
Remains of time, 
Cut-off- ears and marks of defeat.
A beach shoulder crying over the nests of its seagulls 
Mumbled:" A cheap spring 
Is what the miracle doves 
Have paid their throats a price for its singing!!! “
I loosened the ties for my steps,
But I stood as if pinned to the ground;
I tossed away the moment, in which I bereaved my sea,
And went on flirting with
The fuzz of my dreariness.
The couriers of death, 
Still in haze black jackets, 
Raised a mast stained with clay mixed in
Oil of desires; 
It’s a spring chocked with the blood of flowers, 
Smoke of the lost horizon, 
Pirates and autumn
Branded with palms 
Stained by the blood of a grassy dream
Beneath a cloud of straw
And ashes......
And
Trees
The sap rising in it stopped to green and give colors 
To the branches of dreariness.
Oh! How reckoning troubled us
With all that comes with it;
The jars in its coffers
Are full of
Forgotten pains, 
Fear of the moment, 
Broken wings, 
Songs shattered in the voice 
Of reed pipes trying to play it, 
And days of spring
That turned into
Trees of a dreary autumn.
 ***
 Translation by: 
Em. Prof. Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
 USA
 March 6, 2013
 * Saad Yassin Yousuf is a poet from Iraq
Link t0 the original poem In Arabic : http://www.alnoor.se/article.asp?id=204317


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Broke Me Down

Broke me down so badly That I shatter inside, Until on my knees I fall. Hurt by the name you called, Constantly bullying me. My pain I wear like A patchwork quilt, I sure you saw me in this color, They are my tears, Each drop connecting With another painful memory. I'm lost, confused, alone. Maddening silence around me, A darkness, a fading memory, It's suffocating, draining my heart. Hurt me once again. My achievement swept away, Everything I believed Is not here today. The sun has set and Never more to shine. The clock on this wall stands still. I no longer have the will to fight Whether I live, or die matters less.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

EmergencyResetButton

I need to purge my blood of these shivers, smoke-filled bubbles burst in blood capillaries, an embolysym of you, an embolysym of truth. So much disease carried through an artificial vein.A wire mesh heart that surrounds the tissue, and cuts, and scrapes and tears the flesh thats pulsing there. My iron lung feed me unwell. A binge on sickness that I cannot take back. And with words settling back on the heels of my fingertips, Im ready to be ill. Emesis of b***s***, of treachery. Of indecency, of dishonesty, of facelessness, of cowardice. Will anyone ever read this and understand how a broken heart heals? The maliciousness of untrust and the misuse of of courtesy have eaten away at my regenerated liver. My borrowed kidney is rejected on the operating table and I am drained of all my poisoned blood. So give me a heart outside of my body, a big plasticine box with rubber tubing. And let my eyes see the you drain out of me and the blood of unknown angels be filtered in. I wanna watch every drop be filtered from my collapsing veins, I wanna deflate every organ inside and empty every nerve synapse of memory.I want a restart button and I want a renewable source of energy. I dont want your weak blood in me anymore. I dont needd your tiny bits of protein, your half-formed enzymes. I want  anything else. An artificial sense of safety within my reach. So split me down the middle, no anesthesia, the scalpel working inch by bleeding inch. and seperate me from you.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A rebirth

He inspires somber fireside melodies 
Children keep a distance, 
or whisper trepid greetings 
Tears roll uncontrollably
and nights never end  

Once,  
he could conjure soft rains, 
And the sensation of stormy droplets  
One after the other,  
they found solace
in a joint stream of tears and laughter 
But nothing seems to live within him  
now 

Idle winds hasten with each shallow breath 
His halting pulse sliding  
along in the ensuing current
It wields acute visions of his remote past  
severely depleted by a brittle reality  
And a faint rhythm  
barely pacing the angry winds  

He hears the steady hum  
of an ineffable thought 
It’s the only song he knows 
It rings unbearably through him 
inducing a rare prayer 
But fading emotions flood the dreary night 
He wanders through dreamless crevices  
while angels rest 
Birds fall silent  
when he breaks an intimate radius 
They fail to hear the sound of life   

Eyes glow incessantly in the dark 
A lone candle casting his 
silhouette against the wall behind him 
He cannot bear his own shadow 
Every flicker recalls a glittering past 
Every fade, a dimming existence  

Spirits scurry in apprehension 
He bears a disconcerting cocktail 
of impassive eyes and indifference 
He offers the spirits a wide berth
But every path leads nowhere but 
Past curious owls 
and pensive trees
and bewildered creatures
All sensing a presence… 
and seeing nothing  

They ask questions 
About higher beings and broken souls 
About our natural order and enduring hope 
About heavens, birds, trees 
and the spirits that live within  
They relate a solemn tale 
That his life carries a matching  
and constant destiny 
Of an equivalent death  
and sad parity 
And the dawn of a new rebirth


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I'm Alone And Wounded

Yesterday can't be erased. Our memories on the wall, The still images surround me Feeling claustrophobic. I, the only prisoner, Of these still images. Forgive you isn't the solution, There is a hole in my heart. I do forgive you But our love is gone, The memories are there. I was hurting, you were so blind. I did everything yours way Just to keep your love alive But that's not enough for you. You polluted my life with your Indifference, intensified emotions. I've lost my respect for you. What am I to do, did you ever care ? Or, may be it's just because I love you ? I, once a happy and social boy And then you came in my life, I believe but all you did was lie and falls, Now I'm confused, alone and wounded.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Gator Bait Series 4th At Your Discretion with Intention

It's that time of year again, when eliminating unwanted baggage or trash ( your choice)...we have ALL the options available to you..start your " New Year " with a clean slate....Join us for our first year anniversary date...

Thanks to all for a dream come true...
I couldn't have done it without all of you...
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Details | Prose Poetry | |

Without

Scared and alone
Without you here
Lost and cold
No longer apart of me
Just don't know any more, of you
Or even myself
Fear and hopeless
The more I think, the more I'm 
no longer sure
Just wanting you to hold me close,
To show me you care and will always be there


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ashes in the Sky

Searching through the ashes
Of the memory of my past.
I found a dying ember
Of a love I hoped would last.
  
Tried to make it glow again,
But no matter how I tried
It kept on  getting colder
Till it finally died.

Now as I sift through
These ashes cold and gray
My mind starts to ponder
As to what I want to say

There once was a raging fire
Inside our bodies it did burn
Thought it would burn for ever
But now a lesson we did learn

Our passion that we had
Flowed both day and night
But there were some problems
That were  hidden out of sight

Life styles that were different
Thought we could handle some 
But when they raised their head
Just to many too overcome

So now the wind is blowing 
Those ashes in the sky
Both of us now realize
That it's time to say goodby .


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Wishing you could love me too

You mean so much to me, more then you'll ever know. 
More then ill ever be able to describe.
But I'll try.
Voice of a angel, touch ever so soft you would think its a feather.
Eyes so beautiful seeing them on a sunset day, medusa stare ever so hypnotizing locking eyes can't look away.
Baby in the tummy, heart just started beating giving me a rush that I really needed.
Love so old I feel defeated.
Even though I do everything for you, I'm looking out for me just keeping a close over view upon you.
How can I fix your life if mine isn't alright, but i don't know where id ever be with out you by my side.
And I thought I'd never know but as of now I'm pushing through. 
Now that your gone, I miss you every night.
But I gotta be strong.
Cause if not you'll be gone and ill be with a baby missing its mom.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Martyr Girl

The Martyr Girl
Arabic Poem by: Jasem Al-Khafaji*
Translated into English by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
===========================

In your absence,
Dreariness, in every class, 
Has been the prayer of the break..
Every teacher calls your name,  
His voice falls slaughtered, in pain, on his lips..
In every standing and every sitting, 
Your class condoles with your desk..
Without you there, the schoolyard feels empty 
The bell sounds strangled as it tolls for you..
Oh, grief of all schools!
Oh, weariness of all lessons!
Too young to be gone..
Your mother wished to see you a bride..
Vacant was your stand in the lines and rows
For the flag ceremony
And, silently, 
The flag was raised..
The blackboard is missing your words
Saddened with no words to spell
“Dar” … “Door” 
Oh, grief! 
When your braid caught fire,
The kids tried to put it off with your bookcase
Their hands were too small to carry water..
May God help your mother.. 
Your mother, who, in her grief, turned white, 
Like daylight upon your coffin
Your mother, who, with slaps of grief,
Drew skipping squares on her cheeks
Your mother, who raised your hand in prayer to God
Your mother, who used to come to get you,
 At the end of the school day
Your mother, who, not even once,
Received a teacher’s note complaining about you
Your mother, who is wrapping ribbons
Around your pictures 
In madness after you
God help your mother, who, in her grief, 
 Turned white like daylight upon your coffin..

O God, May all bombs be paralyzed,
And all blasts be blinded!
----------------------------------------
* Jasem Al-Khafaji is a poet from Iraq,
The poem is in Iraqi folks spoken dialect 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

LONELINESS

loneliness drowns the tender reed
loneliness leaves your soul to bleed
loneliness an endless aching need
loneliness just you, it's only seed
loneliness it's the heart, afraid of breaking
loneliness a nightmare, afraid of waking
loneliness that never learns to dance
loneliness that never takes the chance
loneliness who cannot seem to give
loneliness that never learns to live
loneliness the road has been too long
loneliness for the lucky and strong


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Free me please

I have to hide how I feel 
I can't tell any of my friends about my deviant art
I can't say how I feel to him
(Beleive me I have tried he won't listen)

On sundays 
I dred the hour
Of six 'o clock 
At that moment in time is when I must leave
At that time my eyes begin to water

I love to go to Church,yes,
But I hate to go back to him




Our lives are in ruins because of him
He's heartless
Cruel
And only cares about him 


One day soon I hope to be free 

One day soon I can be me.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Modern Day Merlin

To the torn page out of Modern day Merlin’s book of wizardry,

I regret to inform you that you are nothing more than a recipe for tomato soup. You have no enchanted qualities about you, but you tend to brag about where you come from more times than you realize. Dear torn page, haven’t you noticed that the he only wondered on your whereabouts when his life was turning quite pale in color, and rugged in shape? Your words of zest, and your smooth direction brought vibrancy into his blue octagonal soul. Probably like how an octopus would feel escaping from a cloud of his own ink. He could breathe again.

But you’re lost now, and he doesn’t care much. You wonder why you were written in the first place if you’ve only felt what magic you can make once. If there are over 7 billion people in this world, have you ever wondered how many pages in books there might be? Has it ever occurred to you that out of those trillions of pages turned, over half haven’t been read at all? Has it ever occurred to you that books have been transformed into toys? Children in schools use you until they grow up and buy iPhones and laptops, and you’re left on sitting sideways on some rotting wooden shelf that has nothing more to talk about than how bad of a shape he’s in. Has it ever occurred to you that there are mysteries, histories, nursery rhymes, and adventures that have been overlooked because of the simple fact that humans have given up on the great things?

Actually, it would seem that giving up is the only thing their willing to give. Your black blood on a papyrus shell just doesn’t flow in the mind like it used to. You reminisce on the time when you were the only one that cast a spell on him, and you gave him life again.

Now the wizard is off signing autographs and performing shows at Rockefeller Center every first Friday of the month. He uses only spells so basic that he doesn’t have to read the step by step instructions anymore. To be honest, the book isn’t even used as frequently. I think I even saw a family of dust specks rent a home on page thirty-three last week.

But has it slipped your mind, humble recipe? Have you forgotten already of the position you’re in? You are a torn page now.

So float on by.

Let the wind keep you steady.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

You Dream to be Best

In the deep slumber
Of thoughts fuzzier than ever
Close, and closer a voice echoes
Through the haze
And darkness of a nocturnal place
A face brightens the day
With the ray of hope

Touches this hand
And never let go
My face is just low
For an unworthy child
Just mild and helpless
Dependent and immature
That is who I am I know for sure

I'm so sorry that I am not Ideal
Not perfect full of mistakes
I am nothing, just nothing
Can't do everything
To be on top deep down I'm a mop

Cannot sleep, no peace inside
Please forgive me
I can't stop the pain
I can't make it go away
On the edge, I just fell
Thinking of it every single day
I might drown
By your thoughts
I cry and frown.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

When Alone

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

1one2two9nine

 1one2two9nine 
1one2two9nine 
 
 
CharlaXFabels 
 
 
WiseorFoolish 

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



Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Scattering that Comes With Painful Impossibility.

Morning light and time breathing, he slipped himself underneath me as daylight broke,
I fought tears, I fought him, I fought myself and life happened in the midst of refusal...


I fumbled in my pockets for pieces of him when the puzzle of me scattered, I watched
months become rich with memories and curls tangle themselves into shadows against the
moon, I yanked out promises as my elbows bruised and wished my mouth had been sewn shut as
my jeans could erase the treasures that were left by his fingerprints...

Letting go of me and I forced myself to reach too far, I challenged my beliefs for the
taste of him, for the taste of a smile when my eyes were wet with the tears I refused to
let fall and I fell, underneath him, on a Sunday, in June, when we spoke too softly for
the sun to hear us and I don't think summer ever knew I was waiting, I don't think he knew
that I patiently watched my heart break.....


Dawn rose in October, afternoon glared at me from beneath the stars in January and I felt
him again as I wrestled with ideas of why I wanted to, and I wondered what his motivation
was in March, on the night the snow fell without regard for our safety, I almost knew it
couldn't be my curls, I felt I was way too...

...scattered.



I felt him in May, I reached for his hand when our windows erased the nightmares, I lay by
his side and listened to his heartbeat to find my voice and we breathed...

when lips touched without speaking, when eyes locked and closed and whispers danced
through sunbeams, when he told me, from underneath me...

he loved me...

before the sun fell and after heartbreak felt a little bit too much like June.






Details | Prose Poetry | |

What have I Seen

 have seen bright-eyed daises open and baby yellow buttercups unfold,
I have seen these spreading across water-mead’s a cloth of purest gold,
I have seen white clouds scud across blue skies changing shape as they go,
I have seen storms from a distance rain, lightning thunder, hail and snow,
I have seen pure white sheep graze and lap water beside a crystal stream,
I have seen swallows playing games over mountains in my beautiful dreams,
I have seen wretchedness far from home my longing for peace haunts my mind,
I have seen deepest sadness and search for deep and good memories to find,
I have seen in my dreams I am leaning on an old gate down in a spring lane,
I have seen may time in England and lush green fields turning to gold again,
I have seen yellow pastures where tiny silver waters flow like a silver thread,
I have seen a skylark gently flying high singing sweet songs over my head,
I have seen a dream that in my future I am free to return to my home some day,
I have seen the truth it is all just a pipe dream and I can never find a way.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Brave Soldier

Eleven years ago, my father died.
Divorced from my mother when I was two, 
he was a stranger to me most of my life.
I had no tears as the Marine handed me the flag.
He said, "This is a gift from the President of the
United States in honor of the service that your father
gave to his country". 

Five years ago, as my mother died,
I touched her face and held her hand -
something she never allowed when we were children.
I told her everything was all right
and she could let go.
My eyes were dry, she had no funeral.

Later that year,
my husband packed his suitcase.
He told me of his plans
to find his "spiritual path", and left.
I said nothing and went inside.

But last night, my sweet little Aussie
stumbled and fell, unable to move.
With wide eyes slightly opaque,
her dear face grey around the muzzle,
she told me, its time.

This sweet companion,
faithful and brave, has only asked
for my presence in her life.

This morning, I awoke,
and I cried a  child,
with my mouth open,
eyes streaming,
nose running.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Last Journey

Beating drums mark his last march and fifes play lowly, a breeze blows on blackthorn blossoms,
Raised high above on hardened shoulders for the mourning march, that slowly glides him along,
A hero, a name carved in precious polished stone, this is his last the most important journey,
The drums roll, bearers sway quietly with each step, a fife plays sadly bringing burning tears.

Winter, its hard wrinkled face and rough horny hands froze men to death stuck in no mans land,
It has no friends in this evil hated war and happily takes wounded men, a trophy to its might,
Thick mud is sometimes frozen and is like granite as the brave settle waiting for the whistle,
Some died with honour, their bravery hard to understand, bearers proudly shoulder such a man.

The parade stops at a grave, they lay their comrade down on planks of wood covering the hole,
The innocence of sweet youth taken away, living with bitter hating men, fear drives them on,
This boy was different he believed in the cause and he died for that sacred belief, honour,
The drum roll stops and a bugle plays the last post, men with their head bowed pray for help.

At home all are working in their gardens, a father mows grass, turning earth fresh and mellow,
Young flowers spring up in his boarders they have a delicate, poetic beauty a snow drop grows,
His boy, in fields far away, just as delicate as these new flowers when he took the shilling,
A father stops, can he hear the drums slowly and fifes playing lowly as his boy is lowered down.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Bleeding Heart

My heart is bleeding and I don't know why

My heart is beating can't you hear it cry

My heart is broken can't you see it split

My heart is torn, torn to bits

My heart is vengeful and it has no regrets

My heart is soulless and it needs to be put to rest

My heart is useless cause you choose somebody else

My heart is frozen from everyone else

My heart is black

My heart is cold 

My heart can't let you go

My heart will wave goodbye 

My heart sank for the last time.....


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 | |

Once Again

Once again, I tried to love, so I tore down my wall and let him in. Once again, he has torn my heart apart. 

So forever more the wall he had torn down I have built it higher than before. 

They say there is a soul mate for everyone so is mine the one I had at sixteen and God had taken from me at twenty or do I just not have a soul mate that everyone happens to have that makes them happy and the love that I am missing?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Silver Key

The Silver Key
I see in the path of me, a key- this key I can reach I notice has no current owner in which is just like a useless key without any purpose. It’s not even a key to my broken heart to put the parts where it should be. Even the key could be changed to serve some good, but still in my path I also notice I’m currently like the key- useless to any purpose in which this broken heart of mine wouldn’t be able to piece the parts of my life where it should be. Also, like the key all alone in which waiting for someone to make use of it until then I am me and it’s just this silver key. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Behind it all

What I feel inside is something I usually hide
No one sees the tears behind my smile,
the sadness behind the jokes
or the pain behind my eyes

What I think about is for me to know
and for everyone else, just a question
I don't show emotions, so everyone thinks  I'm fine
Even though there's so much more then the happy girl

On the outside, everything is fine
But once you look inside...
You'll see where the pain comes from
But you won't be able to tell, behind my angel smile 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Memories June 9 1999

The touches, tears and cries for help, a child living in fear.
Being told never to tell a soul, to ashamed to look in the mirror.
Not being able to trust anyone, because of being betrayed.
Now haunted by what has been done, praying the memories will fade.
Surrounded by many shattered dreams and all hope taken away.
Drowning in fear of being violated again, their eyes plead the words they can not say.
The memories will always stay with a child buried deep into the mind.
A permanent barrier now built within, keeping anything from getting inside.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Autumn Leaves

Autumn leaves.
The ones that coloured my days golden, I long for them during the winter of my life.
I long for their warmth and how I long for their beauty.
Why have they left me?
I cannot bare the cold.

Numbed by the snow I gaze out into what is left of the seasons.
I cannot see clearly as nostalgia dances around me, twirling among the blinding shadows,
always just out of reach.
I can never hold her again.
She taunts me, but I can never hold her again.

My heart, my poor suffering heart.
There is no fixing this break, there is no going home again and there is no hope for
another Autumn.
I have come to the end of the road and there is nothing left but fields of white.
They beckon me.
I take a step and all at once a feeling of calm, complete calm, washes over me.
The world stands still, waiting for my descent.
I realize, then and there, this is the final chapter.
My last season, ending.
I take one last look at the dancer and dream one last dream of Autumn leaves.
My finale.
I am forever now, in the endless white.


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 | |

A BEGGAR FOR A PIECE OF BREAD

                                      Each Experience is locked
                                       within my heart and only
                                      I hold the key of sadness
                                      of a human being in town
                                           insight questions me


                                    A beggar for a piece of bread
                                       cries with extreme hunger
                                         fainthearted, deserted
                                   belongs to present generation
                                          with my eyes I do see

                                   Takes the wastes all we throw
                                    eats on foot path,faded smile
                                 along with street dogs and crows
                                           lives life like a beast
                                         My marketing goes on

                                    Sleeps under a leafless tree
                                           in railway plat form  
                                  near drain or under Over bridge
                                      or under the sky for cold air
                                      On costly silky bed I do rest

                                      Clothes are torn and untidy
                                  a gaunt face is filled with sorrow
                                          sees with loopy eyes 
                                     drinks water with dirty mug
                                     I like branded mineral water

                                           Tears mixes with rain
                                        no medicine for any pain
                                           vehicles are only legs
                                    a picture I enjoy senselessly
                               I am happy with modern civilization





bl devnath
24th Aug. 2011







Details | Prose Poetry | |

This Basement Of Ours

We never enter the basement.
It is a place of horrors, fears, and sorrows.
Our basement is a black door surrounded by the fogs of mystery, chilled with neglect.
I've seen it once, this basement of ours.
I felt its chill, at first what I saw was unknown. It was another world, a new land, unlike anything I'd ever seen.

This basement of ours was dark, it was a place where the black sun hung high, it has a warm hypothermic kiss to the surface of the skin. I saw ravens flying, riding on the wings of burnt and unopened love letters, frames of a talented and widely loved young wolf gone omega.

Here in this world I feel the weight of silence. It rains silence, blanketing what was once golden. It fills my nose with every breath. A I sift through this place, wipe away the residue of silence and time, I see frozen moments, temporary forevers. I see pictures, what this land might have been.

I've seen many things in this basement. But in this moment that seemed to last forever, I found quite a find. I found a find that intrigued me down to the deepest recess of my mind.

It was on the outskirts of this wasteland. Covered in silence, it lay beneath dancing weavers weaving silk bed traps. What I found was a product of the twisted oak, carved with the legacies of the natives, the light in a dark world.

It was a chair, a rocking chair. A chair placed by the window yet untouched by the sun. A chair I'd heard stories about, a chair that had lived a long life, raising small children now grown. Yet her sweet whispering allure called to me.

On it I read stories of the seasons, from the blazing summer sun, to the frozen winter nights. It had curves as the hills in Italy, depicting the wild horses that roam. This land of silence and pain now turned loud, deafening with the questions and thoughts racing through my mind.

Where was it made? How did it get here? When did its journey end? Why was it forsaken? But most of all, What was this place? This land I found now stuck in time. This land full of things now covered in silence, wrapped in pain and mystery.

I hear footsteps, up in the world above. They call out to me, time has come rushing back. This wasteland will return to silence. I never forgot that place, now grown, my children will soon discover that land. They will journey for the answer to what lies below. I found the answer. This place, this is the place of lost sons, broken dreams, and bad memories.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Addicted

My life has dumps and learning experience
and pain but 
I had grown to understand that 
                             this is not the end
I feel that I answer a question 
that's been bothing me for so
                                     long
now my life is smooth 
and almost all
right
now I have 
to heal this 
feeling that

spreads poison inside
bring back that power
 
and marvelous feelings 
that I once had for
                    me love stills a beautiful thing
its not hormlous its lovelous with addiction still
at harmful recovery 

body so a mude to the actions you
serve 

my thinking is you
and my body craved for
you my lips less tasteful
my heart is fighting every man that come close
 to the heart I shared with you
bring back you give me back what I need and thats 
you that keep my soul, world and life alive


Details | Prose Poetry | |

When you're just not thinking

Remorse is building up inside of me,
Everyone has to know fairy tales don’t always have happy endings,
Never thought you could try so hard and still fall short,
I’m in need of something to fill this hole in my chest,
It grows bigger,
Moving deeper,
Making me realize that some things can’t ever be achieved or obtained,
I’m gonna bottle up my heart and let it float out in the sea,
Never to be found,
Never to be seen,
No more pain can be caused when it’s somewhere at the bottom of the sea,
I need to face the fact that I’m going to lose everything if I keep on the path of my sanity,
I want to believe that things can only go up for me,
But that’s life,
Your gonna suffer,
Sitting in the corner rocking back and forth,
Head so low you can see caskets from the recently diseased,
It’ll be pouring showers from all the crying that’s going to be happening,
I know life might seem hard sometimes,
And trust me it is,
I know that shotgun looks shiner by the minute,
And trust me it does,
But just bottle up your heart and send it away,
Like I did,
Because no matter what you’re going through,
What might be going through your head right now,
Just isn’t worth it..



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lost Love WLM March 29 2011

I feel so hurt
And so much like a jerk
For I have lost my dream
Just let it out and scream
What did I do
Can I ask you
Am I to be alone
All I can do is groan
I ask God will it ever be
Does she really want me
Please Lord let her call
For me to be that is all
I am so stuck in a rut
Do I just give up
Can not hold back the tears
The return of all my fears
I hope to see
That she really needs me
I will never know
For she will have to show
Can you give me my best friend
Or have I lost her again
Tell me did I sin
Should I just give in
I am at my wits end
Knowing not where to begin
I sit here and moan
At me just throw the heavy stone
Please, oh please hit the mark
Then I know it will break my heart
I always feel the use
Finally I remember the abuse
My feelings inside
Will never subside
Why not go ahead and fall
With my life just end it all
Does anyone really care
That would be so rare
For all I feel is lost
And in the end that is the cost




Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Rocking Chairs

It's early in the morning 
The sun has yet to rise 
Daylight is still hidden 
In its dark disguise 
. 
There is peace and solitude 
Nothing seems to stir 
Trees that stand tall and strong 
Still are nothing but a blur 
. 
The coffee that I'm sipping 
Takes the chill out of the air 
Only sound that I hear 
Is the rocking of my chair 
. 
We used to rock together 
Before the sun came up 
Sharing tea or coffee 
Each had our special cup 
. 
Neither one of us 
Ever had to say word 
For just a little smile 
Every word was heard 
. 
Yes It was a special time 
That I spent with you 
Rocking in our rocking chairs 
Was what we loved to do 
. 
Now your chairs a rocking 
With the Man above 
But let me tell you sweetie 
Your still the one I love 
. 
I rock here every morning 
Waiting for the sun rise 
Missing you so very much 
Tears flowing from eyes 
. 
Soon we'll be together 
I'll be rocking next to you 
And If we're really lucky 
They'll be a chair that's built for two 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Forever is really never

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Would there be The Great War

Where are my sweetest dreams, where are my happy memories, where are my dearest friends,
If I could light a candle for each lost friend, it would be a huge inferno, would this be hell,
Could there enough wax, in this wretched angry world, to make candles for all our lost souls,
If there were wax, would there be sufficient forests for matches to light so many candles,
And will there be a day when one man is left, he would have nobody to fight, nor to kill.

Would it be the last day of the Great War, would that man sit listening to birds singing,
And if he listened to the birdsong, would it be a song about the brutal stupidity of man,
Or would it be nightingales singing sad songs, so very sad songs, your heart would break,
Could the last man live on with his broken heart, the losses, and the horrors of the war,
And if that man walked back home would he be given a white feather because he did not die.

Would he be called lazy if he did not dig many millions of graves to bury our dead hero's,
Before each burial would he take a last letter from everyone's pockets and send them home,
If he did would he pencil footnotes of how brave the son was, the husband was, the father was,
Would his gallant lies be justified and give solace to the millions of grieving families,
And would there be that many wooden pencils because the forest were felled to make matches.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Reality

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

11009

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Unraveling of August.

I've wrecked me again, scattered, undone...

and here...

We were foolish to believe and he was simple, then, I could have told him...

underneath me...

but I turned upside down, you see, and tumbled from up above.


Bee stings and southern air, and if I thought I didn't remember, if I thought it was
easier to smile when words weren't spoken...


brilliance is never found in silence and oh, how I knew I was right, how I knew hearts
didn't break when the moon was full...

I forgot to look, through the months that his eyes shone brighter, and I almost stopped
myself because when almost everything is right....

what does it matter?


I wished that he was never enough, though I felt him deep inside, though I rocked through
weeks that confused me, though I slipped through fear alone by his side and Wednesday
whispered her premonitions from skies that were slightly too dark....

too full of August...

for safety.


I wanted him to hold me, just once, when the sky fell, I repeated words over and again and
found myself...

wishing...

I was new...

and I could feel him breathing when I stopped as irony slapped me back to life, I saw the
mirrors crack a little, I saw who I was underneath, I kissed the surface to convince
myself I was still beautiful, despite the changes in my mind....

I knew I loved him, I knew...

I couldn't hold his hand...

so I held onto nothing a little bit tighter, I suffocated circulation, I stopped....

breathing...

and came undone...

because I could still feel August...

and I still...

needed him.





Details | Prose Poetry | |

My pain

blood drips down
locked the door
the stinging starts to fade
everything becomes a blur
i know lay in the tub
in the cold water
my my arms stings
then the pain fades
i go under hopping not to come back up for air
and i feel my body going numb
i open my mouth to get a water in and blood
i tell myself to stay under
and then everything fads away
no more pain
my heart stops
the pain leaves me
my dead body is in the tub
TO NEVER BE FOUND AGAIN
untill someone starts looking for me
when they find my body
it will be to late


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Once again Once More

Where to begin " proclaim its not you " just me
You were all I wished you could be
Will that help - set you free?
Please don’t beg, please don’t plea..

There’s no point in asking once again “why”
And you know me " I won’t lie
Gently cutting the cord, severing the tie
Whilst gently whispering my final “good bye”

We’ll always have these moments, imprinted and set
Lest you are worried that maybe I might forget
So there’s no need to curse the day we met
I promise I leave with no thoughts of regret

We gave it all " put in a good try
A heavy heart " a sad sigh
So I say my final “good bye”
Keeping my head held up high






Details | Prose Poetry | |

Frail

Weary eyes gazed to the sky.
Pleading for the sun to beam a hope of comfort.
Mind wandering in the midst of wind.
As to why he was paying for his father’s sin.
Petite hands trembling. 
As he fumbled in bewilderment.
Skinned down to the naked bone.
A feeble body diminishing suddenly, 
amongst a memory leisurely deteriorating. 
With only the remembrance of purple leaves.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Crooked Sorrow

Canoe, golden brown inking rust colored depths, reflects the shape of my buried soul in rootless flight
Grassy banks envelop the waters and root the hoary trees that are the ghostly spectres bending
To reach for me with blackened toothed arms jaggedly carving silhouettes into the waning light
 Hush their soft murmuring, the rustle of their fading leaves the whispered voices of chis descending

Melodiously they speak of the angst simmering from where the sinful spirits are beckoning
The eclipsing moon’s tide that pulls the unhurried river meets the sullied shores of my reckoning 

The shadows of a godless eternity darkens the ancient seams of life and is slowly spreading


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mixmatch

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

an angel

An angel.

I thought I saw an angel today when I was remembering you.
You are in my waking day, I dream its just me and you.

When I go and walk a while I think your by my side
And then I remember the truth of it all and that you had to die.

I don’t know why im so confused
They say death is  part of life
But you were so little my love
You had not lived your life.

They say you have gone to heaven
And that you are a star
But I don’t believe them, not at all
I just know that you are far

I hope one day I will see you again 
And we will smile and laugh and dance
And I wait with anticipation for the day
That I will get another chance.

I love you


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I'm Not Gonna Let You Say

Whispers in the dark Thoughts of you. a meeting at the park, A memory, a flash Surrounded by pin-drop silence. The saddest thing in the world, I have lost all meanings of life. My mind overflows with memories Of those few green and fair days. How do I mend my broken heart ? I hate this idea of my heart That you are the one thing, Whom I want the most but can't have. You tore my heart into two, One part has lost all and The other still thinking for you. I hate this feeling of pain, I'm not gonna let you say.....


Details | Prose Poetry | |

HOLLOW HOPE

Habits never die she still cries 
In the darkness of the night she lie 
Turning simple words into rhyme 
Traveling backwards in time 
She curse the love which made her blind 
Searching for answers unable to find 
Images float before her eyes 
Rekindled thoughts across the miles 
Gloomy thoughts unsettled mind 
Reality is harsh, the truth is unkind 
The love that haunts her steals her soul 
Deeper in pain, until nothing remains but hollow hope.. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Harlan's Holler

~ Harlan’s Holler ~
Dean Kuch ©2014
The locals say, in the light of day one can visit Harlan’s Holler, stay on the path don't incite the wrath of the man who lost his daughter. The townsfolk say, to this very day, you can hear poor Charlotte cryin.' Beneath silv'ry moon, where young lovers swoon, as she lay there, slowly dyin'... In the August heat, with tiny unshod feet, Charlotte ventured into the Holler. She soon lost her way when the light of day Gave way to midnights squalor. Ripe berries sweet for her mom to eat she'd gone there for the pickin', her bucket now full, twirling locks a' crull, the creeping darkness began to thicken. She wandered for days, to the towns dismay, poor little Charlotte could not be found. Old man Harlan yelled; damned them all to hell— then placed a curse upon the ground. No crops will grow on the ground you sow, all your livestock will surely die, you'll toil endlessly, in the end, you'll be just the same as my Charlotte lie. You'll burn in hell, you'll see, in the end, you'll be just the same as my Charlotte lie... The days dragged on under the summer sun as the child withered to dust. Fred Harlan died, Bible at his side, felled by his curse and vengeful lust. Down on Harlan's Hill you can hear them still, mournful sobs by Pa and daughter, when the moon's just right, in the dead of night, stay away from Harlan's Holler. Lest you tarry there— 'neath the moon, beware, of the curse of Harlan's Holler...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I know why you weep

willow, willow, 
why do you weep?
peering out of the fog,
swaying in the breeze.
mysterious in your beauty,
delicate arms brush the ground,
making ripples in the standing water,
the puddles down below.
sun filters through the branches,
light and soft,
dappling the grass below.
your a peaceful soul,
shy and whimsical,
waiting for acceptance.

willow, willow,
I know why you weep...
in the shadows in the fog,
alone you stand. 
through the fog your somber form is feared.
'stay away from the willow'
they whisper.
'with its arms so low,
ready to reach out and grab.'
you just wish to be seen,
how i can see you.
so still you wait,
with your misunderstood soul,
for the day you no longer weep.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

We Had The Best Love By Far

I didn't want to forget you The thousands picture of you Lodged in my heart. We share so much in a short time, So much I learned from you. Reminders of you stay fresh, Pain is unrecognizable, Not a glimpse of hope in this Darkness. If this wall could talk, You'd know about my fears. It's cold making me feeling less. Shadows cast across the floor, Reflection of the past. Ashtrays fill with sleepless nights, A tear I shed for loving you, We had the best love by far.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Cadeyrm - Battle King

The battle hardened warrior
stood solemnly upon the war torn land
the battlefield before him covered
with the life's blood of his warriors
battle armour, sword and shield
lay strewn across the land.
Flags fluttered in the breeze
as grim testimony to the fierce
and bloody battle which before
his very eyes had been bravely fought
with his fellow countrymen giving their lives
for that which they had sworn to defend
the very land upon which death now ruled.
His warrior Queen by his side
her allegiance to him the same
as those who had come before her
she swore to give her life, if called upon
for her Lord! her King! her Husband!
The ground, soaked with the blood
of warriors young and old
lay open before them
like that of a bloody wound
received victouriously in battle.
The once pristine beauty of the land
upon which they now stood
lay clenched in deaths mighty grip
a stark reminder of the ravages of battle.
With a warriors cry long born of anger
his sword raised to the heavens
he vowed his life's blood
that those who lay before him would be avenged.
As he turned to walk away
he heard the shrill call of an eagle overhead
this was to him a sign
felt throughout his very soul
that his cry had been heard
and he knew he would be victorious in his quest.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

BLOOD AND LOVE

Shriek of pain
A famous terror
Paralyzing oneself
The fear of three
Death of all
Survival of all
Or just one…
The kicks of the little
An attempt of landing
On what could be
An infertile land
The battle long awaited
All preparations made
Yet none ceases to fear
The pain suffered
They lie between
Death and life
She fights
It fights
They both fight
For survival
The old death
On standby
In anticipation of a choice
In wait of mishap
Who shall it be?
The carrier?
Whose nine months 
Nurtured and caressed?
Or the carried?
Whose life is yet to begin?
The first is chosen
The latter lives
On a sacrifice
Brewed on blood and love
They both could have lived
Couldn’t they?

©Naa Takia, All Rights Reserved 2012



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lies

I wake up in the morning, The smell of your perfume lingering on my skin, I roll over to see if your body still lay there, & I realize everything I loved vanished. I just have these images and scents stuck in my head, I have everything you ever gave me packed away, I look through it again and again each day. Trying to piece the puzzle together, & figure out why we drifted apart. I want to know if you still think about me like I think about you, I want to know if you still have the things I made and gave to you. I just wish I could stop smelling you, Stop thinking about you, Just everything about you brings me to my knees, & I am begging you please, Please just let me forget you. I wake up the next morning and realize, Everything about you was lies.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Reality at its best

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Current

Life has we know it,
It's an road open ,
Between hell and heaven ,
You can choose to live it ,
Which is hard , so forget it ,
Hope and love can whisper;
But death knows better.....


Details | Prose Poetry | |

In the full view of things

In the full view of things 
people will always be harsh 
People will always be stuck up 
Nobody will ever try to help 
Whenever I cry for someone to help 


Nobody comes....


Sometimes I think I am not crying loud enough to hear 
But then I relize,
They only pretend not to hear 
He tells me he cares 
But I know he lies 


He ALWAYS lies....


No matter how hard I try 
No matter what I do 
He still is not satisfied 
He and his frankinstine bride 
Be forwarned... the tale about step mothers.... is true.


They always lie....


They think I am insane 
So they send me to this person
She calls herself a consoler... haha.....
She doesn't have a clue 
She lies, she knows nothing of privet thoughts, and should not be called a counsoler.


What do they know any way....


My mind is my mind 
No one elses to invade 
But if you're brave enough to try 
Good luck getting out... well ...you could say the same 
My mind is always busy 
I can't remember a time when I wasn't thinking 
About the past 
About things I could have said or done 
Or about the future I wish could be true 


I don't know who to trust..... except for one........


My mom 
My sweet and loveing mother 
She is my everything
I love and trust her  
More than I can say


I trust her I love her....


My mom knows me better than anyone I know
She knows my fears, dreams, and hopes
She loves me 
She trust me 
She is the one who helped me when no one would 


I hate him......


The man poseing as a father 
The man who was never there for me
The person I want to be the farthest away from 
I am forced to live with 
By a boges court 
Full of hypocrits and morons 


Why should they get to pick.......


They tell me where I get to go 
They tell me I don't know
OH but I do 
I know more than they could possibly dream of knowing 
Seven years I had been hideing 
Seven years I have known 
He is a heartless monster 


I was there.....


All they had was papers 
I wasn't even aloud in the room 
I had all the proff they needed 
Seven years of experence
But it didn't matter 

One day we will be home with our mother where we belong.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

FREEZING POINT


The river flowing tumble of snow 
jackets the buildings and the road 
on the last twilight of 1998. 

As the sky is slowly draped by darkness and coolness, 
there I am on the coldest loneliest walk of my life.

All around, I can see some dancing colored lights.
The houses spells the happy shadows of families. 
Some sharing a meal.
Some laughing out loud near their Christmas tree.
Some on the middle of a party.

Christmas carols flying free on mid-air like:

"...But heaven surely knows
That packages and bows
Can never heal a hurting human soul..."

With only a coat, long thick black hair kissed by snow
and some old worn socks to warm me,
I traverse the street-- 
finding, finding a place I can call home.

About six days ago... I was also with my parents,
so happy, though we only share some bread and cheese
plus porridge that Christmas day. 

Me and my parents hugged every night
allowing me to stand the icy nights of December 
under the roof of our wooden worn-out home.

My parents though they can't read nor write, 
they diligently work day by day for our needs specially mine. 
I wasn't given any gift nor we can't everyday eat some meat.
However, my days with them are filled with fun-loving memories.

Not until...

a monstrous fire eat voraciously 
our home and three other houses nearby.
My father though old with arthritis 
carried me fast as he can to a safe place
and so my mother but --- 
father ran back to the house 
to save some of our things but unfortunately...
The roof of our home fell.
The fire so ferocious swallowed everything including my father.

My mom and I dealt with this pit of tragedy as one 
but later I saw my mother slowly, slowly crumbling down.
She more than me is slowly falling down faster. 
Her lamp of hope blown out. 
And not long, past six on the same day my mother died.

Hence as the surrounding gets cold 
so is the the life of me gradually reaching the freezing point.


---------------------------------
***Inspired by the story: The Little Match Girl by H.C. Andersen
and with some lines from the song: "My Grown Up Christmas List" by K. Clarkson

©O. E. Guillermo
08:33 pm, December 17, 2014






Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Sins I Commited When I Loved Him Too Much.

I knew the rules, the engagement of us, he had a wound on his chin, he told me it was ages
ago...

he told me about her, he never spoke her name softly enough.

I sat on floors as I looked out windows, I stared for the time it took him to pull his
jeans up, I heard his fingers fumble at the button, his callouses rubbing against metal
and the quick goodbye of a zipper, and I knew it was summer, but the sun seemed to mock
me, the sun rose two hands too far for me to feel her.


“One day, one day, you'll love only me,” I whispered to myself, loud enough to break the
silence but quiet enough so he wouldn't know he had hurt me, though my tone wasn't
convincing and I could never stop the tears.


I pressed my back against pillows and sunk quietly into where he lay his head as I closed
my eyes, I made myself familiar with the fabric of blankets, the soft pattern of quilts
and discovered a new way to hide, and I hid from him so he would stay...

I would have done anything if he would just stay.


He reached over to kiss me, to touch my cheek and run his hand over the freckles no one
ever saw, he smiled for a second, for the moment it took for me to curl up into him, my
lashes tickled his arm, my tears traced over his tattoo and I found it hard to let go.

I composed myself, I looked into his eyes, I thought about how sad it was that I begged
for him even when he was right there, I stopped for a second when he opened his mouth, I
followed the trails of his breath as if they were swimming through my air, and he told me
that I was the only one who ever made him happy...

I shook my head, I blinked and found love to be ironic because the feel of him was killing
me, I kissed him, lips meeting and sins committed, and for the time it took him to walk
out my door, I turned my head and stared out my summer promising window...

just to watch him leave.



Details | Prose Poetry | |

There Are Shadows Here

There are shadows here, loose and lingering, from long ago, that hold me 
captive in their holy power; they hold old memories, and bind me from top to bottom.
They forever walk with me, holding my hand as I reach it away and forever run with me 
as I try to lose their trail... shadows long and slow, with wisps of pain, they hang 
to my thoughts, my feelings, my starts and my stops; forever hold me back, hold me in,
hold me hard against myself; forever lock me inside these clinging, enveloping mists 
of the past.  There are shadows here, sharp and hard and edged in brilliance; shadow shapes
to outline ancient wrongs, false thinking, guilt-induced actions; shadow shapes to forever
put me in the spotlight of anger, of remorse, of repentance; shadow shapes to forever 
keep me on the edge of a life I can see, but never cross over to.  There are shadows here, 
loose and lingering from long ago...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

MIGRATORY

I dreamed she housed her love in the shape of a living bird. How much do migratory creatures know, I wonder, of the weather on the other side? A week ago, the heart that is in my body from time to time leaves me a note I don’t answer. Can we at least talk? it asks, and I think “yes,” and then I lay down, exhausted. In the letter I finally write back. I don’t even apologize, I don’t think. “With you gone, it’s like I’m gone too.” That’s all I say. Words are harder to come and I myself am migratory, though these days lacking in wings or feet. I know nothing of the weather on the other side. I don’t even speak the language that I want to understand. Living as opposed to what? Her living bird made me wonder. Living in what way? I’m watching our wings, hung, ready for tomorrow. I’m looking for a place to put my arms.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Torn

I am torn cause you broke my heart

I am torn cause you act like you had no part

I am torn cause you went away

I am torn cause your choice was not to stay

I am torn cause I believed you

I am torn cause you said we were threw

I am torn cause you said goodbye

I am torn cause our love was a lie

I am torn cause you walked away

I am torn cause I don't know what to say

I am torn cause I don't know what to do 

I am torn cause my heart can't live without you.....


Details | Prose Poetry | |

FLAMES

Nobody knows my story
I don’t even know my story
I sit at the window
Gazing at the raindrops 
That wriggle their way down my sill.
I wish I had been given more grace
I wish I had seen the grace
Nobody knows what happened
I don’t even know what happened
Had I murdered her?
Had I let out her spirit?
I wish to remember
Yet I do not want to know
My story is not forgotten; it just doesn’t exist 
Or does it? Only in me?
An illusion, a mirage or a dream?
Who knows my story?
I bet nobody knows my story
I still remember her scream
Piercing through the walls of that tower
I still remember that mouth,
Too tired to utter words
It was only the tongue 
Alive enough to lick that blood
Blood that tickled
Freely from her forehead 
She had stared hard
As if to tell me what?
This story runs endless
This story is timeless
It keeps arresting my thoughts
Should I have helped?
Could I have helped?
When I was frozen?
When I was rooted to that spot?
When I could do nothing
But to stare back?
I do not know my story
I have no idea what it sounds like
It happened too fast
In one split second
Right before my eyes
It all went up in flames…


Details | Prose Poetry | |

WHAT WOUND DID EVER HEAL

“What wound did ever heal, 
But by degrees”
…Shakespeare
Except my mother was dear
…Very dear

Count me among men
Who can read and write
Count me among them
Who finds book a delight
No!
Not about intelligence
Mother taught me diligence
Scrapped for a living
So I could get learning
I am a dead woman’s sweat
My worries cracked her chest
My mother was my literacy
My literacy is my treasure
My treasure…is you
I wrote what you can read
She was its measure.
I never paid back 
Never gave thanks.
Prodigal son playing pranks

On me,
She had learned to hope
Then died
In last breath still in hope
That I lose not hope
But what hope lies there 
For a drawing man to hope
Last straw, just sank in
Wide Sea without and within

Wounds heal by degrees
But some can’t heal
Only permitted to blurred
My tears blur my view
Soaks the ink in papers
Forcing me to rewrite and renew
She will not want me to cry
Rather that I sit up and try
Dab my eyes, let the tears dry.
“I know who you are my son”
You are awesome”
Mama, you always tell me that
But am breaking down.
Your lose never healed
Shakespeare said its by degrees
Said the pain will decrease
But I detest full healing
You were so appealing.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Beyond the blue skies

                                                     Beyond the blue skies

                                                     Beyond the blue skies;
                                                     Where love and hate lies,
                                                     And their within the blue;
                                                     Lies loves fate so true.

                                                     Beyond the blue skies entier;
                                                     Where hate shoots its fire,
                                                     And love returns a kiss;
                                                     Si that hate will surely miss...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

You've got skeletons in your closet I've got hearts

No one does it better than I.
Be they outgoing or a touch shy.
And to sit and think about it now,
And I tend to really wonder how
I got in the business of stealing hearts.

Whispers of a life draw them in.
Sweet smiles and laughter keep them pinned.
And in an instant, I think we could be.
And then I remember we're dealing with me.
Trapping souls forever is a tricky art.

I've never set out to hurt a soul,
But when I leave, they're never whole.
And I sulk for two or three.
And then I move, 'cause I'm me.
In the end, I break them apart.

Falling in love is never my plan.
But then again, such a dashing man.
And I guess I have a charming way.
And I guess I make them want to stay.
Is there ever an end to what I start?

I've never asked for all these hearts.
I was searching for the missing parts.
And then I wake up one day and see.
And then realize it's not meant to be.
When composing love, I'm your Mozart.

I'll come into your life, and make you fall.
I'll take your heart, I'll take it all.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

9Ninety0

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



Details | Prose Poetry | |

YAADEIN

Pichli shab ki tanhai mey ..
Yaadon ka aik album nikla .. 
Guzrey maho saalon mey 
Jis k safhey safhey per 
Her chehra kuch khta tha ..
Kuch tasveerein dhundli thiin bohat 
Kuch ka chehra shanasa daikha..
kuch ki aankhein shab ka ujala
Kuch ka chehra dhuwaan dhuwaan …
Kahan kis ney saath nibhaya tha ..
kahan kis sey dhoka khaya tha 
Her ik chehra ik baab tha jaisey .
Jin chehron ko sung sung chalna tha 
Zindgi ko guzerna tha..
Unhiin chehron sey dhoka khaya tha..
khud ko jaisey gunwaya tha…
gumaan yuun hua tha jaisey 
woh jo aansoo’on sey bheegi kuch tasveerein thin 
soi hui taqdeerein theen
zindagi k bisaat per ujrey huey 
merey khwabon ki taabeerin thiin …!!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Pity Trip

Pity Trip
WLM
Wildncrazy555
July 24, 2011

I need to die
And I know why
The pity trip
My soul to rip
I have no life
So full of strife
No one knows
How can they
There is no way
Shall I stay another day
WHY oh Why
I just want to die
But what of Darla
My only friend
What will happen to her
She is the only one who needs and wants me
She is the my freedom
She soothes my soul
And makes me whole
She always knows
When I am down
With the whole world closing around
I need my puppy so
And only she will ever know
Now I must go
To where I do not know




Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Small Torrent of Moonlight

A small torrent of moonlight breaches the space between The window and curtain, giving light to nothing less Than herself who lives viciously. She's scared, Not by any spirits, but by demons, an incubus. Forced to never sleep in fear of dreams, and Never not tire, as an exhaustion falls over you. Always falling over, like the splash of rain you've been wanting


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Silence Prevails

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

TRAPPED

I have no friend dear diary
You remain my only companion
Tales of my tragedy, you carefully conceal
A most loyal comrade, heed these words
 My great book, tis me and my teary voice
He was my Anthony and I his Cleopatra
Our love smoked higher above Apollo and Aphrodite’s
We were twined together
Like seaweeds, hidden among rocks ashore
Now our combat is nonstop
And only my mirror sees my bruises 
My chamber remains my foursquare
Tending my wounds till my skin regains its lustre
The only unhealing wound? My heart of hearts
I cling to that thin thread of hope beating myself with guilt
Thinking he will return should I become a better person
That person I brought to life just to face disappointment
He charged fiercer
Battered me from dusk to dawn
And “sexed” away my pain 
For that brief moment my shell is cracked
I remain broken; I see shame
In my quest to fight back
I’m met by the fiery in his eyes
Knocking me down each time
With pride aside I’ve found my voice
If thee find yourself in another’s clutches
Carry on this message
I’m tired, I’m simply exhausted 
And in need of help…

©Naa Takia, All rights Reserved 2012





 

 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Still Can't Die

It doesn't matter if it's dark or, light My life has become a loveless tale, I'm that ship on that lonely sea Where all the things are Dyeing and pale. Thoughts running Through my heart About all my fallen tears Can you imagine my pain ? It's terrible and making me weak Day by day, each moment. Your lie hunts me like a demon Alone in this darkness. I believe you, love you But you continued your lie, Hopes are gone and flew away But I still can't die.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Last Chance Lament

Last Chance, 

I passed through you many times and remember you.

You sit on the Colorado Prairie east of Denver at the intersection of two, two lane highways.

In the 1880's you were a stop along the great Texas Montana Cattle Trail.

You really came into your own as a child of the post war Forty's and Fifty's automobile boom.

The say you once were a lively little town made up of gas stations, motels, cafes, a general store, two churches and several homes.

Word has it, you got your name because you were the last chance for travelers to get gas,
food and lodging on their long treks to Denver and Kansas.

In summer, travelers picked cold Cokes, Pepsis and Grape NeHi's out of your gas stations' iced filled soda chests.
In winter, hot steaming coffee flowed from the silver urns of your cafes.

It was Fords, Plymouths, and Chevrolets that created you,
and it was Interstate Highway 70 that bypassed and doomed you
to whither and slowly die.

A prairie fire in 2012 caused by the sparks of a tire blowout finished you off.

Today you are a ghost town of burnt out hulks, abandoned buildings 
and distant memoires.

Oh, Last Chance.

The stories you could tell.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Young Bird

Young bird,
just learning to fly.
Young bird,
never has cried.
Young bird,
has never known the truth.
Young bird,
I'll remember, the innocent youth.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Pondering continued

"Still no good, 
try harder and harder.".. 
Prove this, 
prove that... 

Everything in life- 
Big task... 
I can do anything... 
And I can, 
no satisfaction, 
nothing was good enough... 

"You're wasting your time,
you're wasting your life... 
You can be more, 
straighten up... 
Use your mind.".. 

I did... 
I did and it still,
ain't good enough... 

Task, test, test, test... 

More things to prove... 
No-one happy... 
I wasn't good enough, 
do better, you're not stupid...

"Use your talents, 
stop wasting them... 
Why are you like this??". 

And I wonder, 
why do you push me??. 
Why can't you accept me??. 

I've tried, 
but I focused on the wrong... 

"You could do better... 
No, yes, no, yes, 
better", they say...

"You can do it, 
you just ain't trying.".. 
You're stupid
if you can't do this or that... 

Why do you do this to hurt us??. 
Why can't you be like so and so??".  

But so and so isn't no better...

Why be competitive??. 
Why do I know things that are beyond??. 

Why was I stuck in a situation,
that I am someone??. 

When I feel like, 
I'm no-one... 

Why was I pressured and pressured??.  
Why only me??. 
And why was I always to blame??. 
And why did so many people,
fall for me??. 

But turn their backs on me... 

What did I do??. 
Nothing... 
Why do people treat me like I'm an artifact, 
like I'm a a God??. 

Why??. 
Am I me??. 

I am EVERYONE!!!

Written: OCJ or GCI in 1997


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Suppression of Suicide

I sat there,
"My God, I can't take another day"
my mind cried;
 My heart was so cold and black...

"Look at yourself", 
I looked in the mirror... 

"You have turned into a Monster, 
you are no longer living,
You are a zombie."..


"You love him so much, 
but look at what is happening"...
Life isn't worth living...

This is not love, 
this is not what I want out of Life, 
This is Madness...  

"Does he really love you?"...

Yes, he does---
I don't know...
He doesn't stop me from the things I do... 

All I know is I really love him...
 
I want to Die!!!
But what would he do?..
What would he feel, 
if he found me dead here?..
 
I wrote this little note 11-14-1996 that night:  
Telling him I love him and will always love him... 

I don't want to die and hurt him, 
if I killed myself, 
"Then it would hurt him!".. 

I wished he really believed me... 
I wish this nightmare would go away... 
Why can't he accept the fact that I'll never leave him?.. 
How do I know he'll stay?..

I know how he feels, 
I know why he feels the way he does about me... 
I feel the same... 

Why am I repeating 
this stupid feeling of rejection?.. 
Why, do I care if he leaves me or not?.. 

I got a nice spot to be buried, somewhere..

I know the other side is much better... 
I'll get a new body, another life... 
I don't want to die unloved... 
I don't want to die alone... 
I don't want to hurt someone I love... 

Maybe he'll join me, 
maybe he won't... 

Whatever he chooses, 
I'll never stop loving him... 
I'll wait for him forever... 

He'll blame himself if I die... 
But it's not his fault... 

I should of spoken up... 
We both should of been more open... 
We should of communicated more... 
I don't know?..

I guess we were really scared of one another!!!
                                                                   
"Feelings of Death" 11-14-1996


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Forgotten Fairytale

I caught a glimpse of you 
    when you didn’t know I was looking 
 Trying to rediscover what I'd forgotten about you 
                About us
         Why I'd once loved you... 
              In that other time
 
You were standing naked in front of the mirror 
         Your auburn hair glistening on your wet, mortal body
  You had just stepped out of your morning shower 
       humming the customary tune you do so well 

I stood quietly in the hall...
watching you shave your golden, red beard 
       while you hummed... 
  keeping the rhythm with your foot 

It was intoxicating, observing your routine 
    without you knowing I was there 
  I'd watched your morning ritual a thousand times 
                 You - always aware when I was looking 
 In the past   
    In that other time
 
      Somehow... 
  watching you more with my heart, than with my eyes 
              made me melancholy 
  Missing those feelings I'd once felt for you 
             For us... 
       So deep within my heart...
   For awhile back then
    
Did we ever really love? 
  Was it kismet? 
       Was it fate?    
         The question sits on unspoken lips 

I sighed... 
     Missing us, missing you
  Back then... 
        In another time     

When our melody began 
   you sang the notes to my heart so well 
       so tender 
  We soared on the music 
         our mouths relishing the kiss
      In our moments back then   
 
     For a time...        
We were us, you and I 
    Tracing our love with thirsy lips 
  hungry bodies 

I stood there looking at you for quite some time... 
        Pausing at the door before I left
                    Knowing... 
 I might never open that door again                 

    I turned back once more before turning to go 
       making sure to remember just why I was leaving 

     But now... 
        Every time I see a man shaving
   I find myself thinking of you

         Goodbye my love
 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Walking through a Victorian Cemetery

Passing a cemetery gate I walked in I could see all the epitaphs chronicling deaths,
The dates were all times and seasons and there were little graves for little babies,
Daisies mark children's resting places their small hands used to make them into chains,
Other huge graves showed people struck down in the prime and evening of their lives.

As time passed the sun's last setting beams a smile on the mounds and shadows stretch,
The evening wind began to sigh among the branches of the many Yew trees very near by,
Death awaits all so we should try to understand that and look death calmly in the face,
His bony knuckles will be heard very loudly as they rattle our doors and beacon us away.

The grim reaper will be the forerunner of the next searching ordeal that is the judgment,
We look into our souls watching the compass of our lives to which way the needle trembles,
As the evening wore on I could see a lonely figure limping along jingling keys to lock up,
A tired old man in the December of his life waiting for a bony finger to show him the way.

Making my way to an inn I ordered a glass of port the gas mantles, dimmed into half light,
Thinking about my day an image of my lost brother came to mind and the pain still dug deep,
I could see him playing with toys in his room, dark shadows under his eyes still haunt me,
Maybe one day I will see the boney finger of my lost brother beaconing me to join him.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Story Of The Lonely Princess

The Story Of The Lonely Princess I sat here from the start of the golden waves to the leaving of the darken blues skies.I often dream of what away from the tower I seat in everyday,I often wish for someone to come and save me and show me the world with no fear of death around the corner.To feel the grass under my toes and the wind in my hair could you believe that everything is harmonize in one with that dream.Me as the princess am only allowed to dream and not leave this place with only one window and one door.I sing to the skies and the animals that run and fly freely.Take me with I would say.I'm placing my dreams away for the are all that I have left.farewell world of the free and brave.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Without The Box

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Who Needs You Now

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dark Depression

Dark Depression 
Suicidal Thoughts
11-18-08
William L. Moore

Let go of all the strife
Just snuff out my life
Make a strong fist
And Slit my Wrist

Make me cry
Hope to die
Call to get help
Only to Yelp

I can not stall
Just end it all
Would anyone care? 
If only I dare

Would someone come by?
To check, to say goodbye
No one would crave
The stink that would Rave

This was written when the whole world was falling down around me.  When life was not 
important any more.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sometimes I Ponder page 1

PONDERING--

I seen myself, torn away... 
I knew, this was going to kill us both... 
For we seen each other as, 
someone else... 

We thought the same, 
we shared the same feelings,
 thoughts,
and pain... 

Two broken hearts, 
two souls, 
hiding, 
afraid.. 

"Why should I Love?.. 
For this is more pain... 

I'm afraid... 
I don't want to hurt, no more...

I'm tired of looking and now,
I've done it again... 
I've fallen in love... 

How can I be so stupid... 
I guess, I'm just looking forward, 
to a broken heart... 

Torment and Pain... 
Two minds possessing these thoughts... 
I don't want to live in pain... 
I deserve a chance... 

I've proven--
well I tried to prove everything... 
But it seemed to be so hard,
to Prove my Love... 

Is it the hardest task to prove?.. 

So stupid to think about, 
WHY??  
Why did so many do me wrong,
what did i do??. 

How do I know, how can I be sure, 
that this won't happen again??. 

Is there really someone out there,
that understands??  
Is there someone out there that actually feels, 
the way I do??  

Is there someone out there for me??

The worlds against me, 
everyone is out to get me... 
I wasn't meant to be happy... 
I was told I was evil... 

I was told, nobody would ever put up with me... 

I was always different 
and hard to understand... 

I never harmed anyone, 
never meant to, if I did...
But it always seemed that I did... 

But how?..  
I never done anything wrong... 

But I was accused constantly, 
over and over...
I was the cause of some mishap....

But how?.. 
I wasn't even around, 
even near any mistake made... 

But it turned out to be,
my fault... 
I was easily accused... 
I took the blame, 
to avoid a big controversy... 

I was always wrong...
Everything I did, everything I said,
and every thought in my head was wrong... 

"You're not thinking right... 

Evil thoughts, 
you speak of evilness...
You corrupt, 
You torment... 
You destroy 
and ruin every-ones lives... 

Bad luck, misfortune..". 

Nothing I've done was good enough...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Bar Scene

Cold hearts sway to timid tones.
We hum hard; hoping to rattle the 
grit out of our mouths.
Sand blasted teeth resonate youthful
denial, torturing revelation’s bargain.
No cheap tricks. No sunshine,
we’re all gone.
Too drunk on pain,
to find hope in the rainfall of liquor 
in this dusty scene.
Too many empty bottles chugging
on air; the last breaths of my generation.
A swirling vortex of broken condoms
and vomited promises dance in neon 
light behind the bar, threatening to dive
into the mouth of the next patron that 
calls to the bartender.
A violent eyed harlot with dollars
bursting out of her bra.
She serves death with a smile,
gyrating her hips to a beat
…that never dances.
She just throws ice into
our blood and glances at 
the tip jar..
Knowing we’ll pay our own
way to hell.
-James Kelley 2013, All rights reserved.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Home at Last

(1)

It was a bright sunny day in two thousand and seven.

September twenty first at quarter to eleven.

In a coma you lay without even a stir.

With our eyes full of tears it just never occurred.

(2)

That this was the last time we would see you alive.

At your bedside your family, children, and wife.

We watched you all night and part of the morning.

Then you sighed your last breath without any warning.

(3)

We hoped  before you parted to your home up above.

We could  take you in our arms and give you a hug.

Your body all broken and ruptured with pain.

All our hopes and desires were all in vain.

(4)

For God had decided it was your time to go.

To that place they call heaven that we all know.

You left us your poetry , teachings and books.

So let us make use of your wonderful works.

(5)

When we visit your grave now we know your not there.

You are up in that College without any care.

So look kindly on all that are left here a mourning.

And please God tomorrow we all have a bright morning.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Gun powder caught in my hair

Losing all the puzzle of me

Wasting more than the eye can see

Growing ice like a flower in the sun

Then to bear the weight of undone

Dragging me through breathless air

Gun powder caught in my hair

Do it, go on I dare

Shoot me, no one is there


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Girls Finish,Finish Him off


  
  Good girls hurry finish, finish him off! 
One can't but paint over
once a sad but 
happy oval faces 
as they urge
their girls to finish, finish
him off! 
kneeling on all fours
pulling him 
back and forth 
their between them 
pouring the oil down 
from the top of his crack
their hands covered 
thick is that his, oil. 
I hear their bloodline
as they moan 
and howl deep in their cuts.

He used to be smug
deep inside, 
gorging on
feeding his insatiable appetite 
with catholic girls
and green damp
pulled back opened panties
Jewish friends would stop by
moaning their oral traditions
of guilt: 
Let them fall, fat and oiled
and of Eve, 
her femoral, lips pulsing
gushing rivers of sin, shame
of the carnal, opening of the cave
near that of childbirth, 
woman and their fat, 
long legged man
being milked
all fours
his punishment for sex.
as they urge
their girls to finish, finish
him off! 
Spill it all on the ground
wasted it is not on the belly 
of his trollop.
Then the taller one
inserts her middle finger 
deep inside 
of him, 
moving around the gland
that caused all this sad confusion.
Stupid man, getting caught in the open. 

Is It Poetry 
 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Adulteress's missing thread

missing threads
----------------
She looks outside. The pale moonlight has fallen across the tributary, illusory moonshine,
like an intimate emission, now that the urgency is gone, meaningless. 
She looks inside. The sprawled bed sheet of flesh shines in luminous darkness which she
thinks she is. 
Remember the worth and compare with leaving behind the cords, one son and a lethargic
clergy who divides his self between interpreting the God and being her husband. 
She remembers the cats, the weekend cooking classes and small garden of oriental roses.
The pale moon is always hiding behind the clouds when you need it. The clarity is a burnt
out butt of the cigarette learning to jump overboard. She waves away the smoke. She looks,
once more, inside and outside.  
=© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Weeping Night

I am crying here, weeping in the night:
thirsting through this silent agony,
heart so empty and torn.

This desire so severed,
a surreal emptiness,
hurled away;

yet I wish for
your warmth so alive.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

May Soon Be

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Diseased

He sits alone
Quarintened in illness
Not disease of the flesh
But virus of the mind
Does not understand why
He is treated like something so vile 
All he knows is
This treatment makes him cry
No one speaks
No one listens
Just leave quickly
Before they can catch the illness
Stupidity and ignorance
At its finest
Pushing him away
Pushing, Pushing
Pushing him over the edge
Crying everyday
Crying, Crying
So sick of crying
Dying, alone and crying
So sick of trying
Dying, dying
Inside and out - He's dying
Are you happy now?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Orphans and Angels

In dells and great glens groups of happy orphan children run and pick bunches of flowers,
They smell them, weave them into posies and garlands, they are blessed by angels in heaven,
And all these children are where they are, because a catastrophe has ruined their sad little lives,
Each kneel by their beds at night and they pray to God for someone to love and take them home,
To have real families and to know love not sorrow, to sleep in peace and not fear tomorrow.

Trees are bright green and the grass is long and warm the children run fast over the glens,
They whip their legs or graze their knees but say nothing, they may be told to sit in the bus,
Little girls making daisy chains under a June sun with their red rosy cheeks and red gingham frocks,
The boys fly past pretending to be airplanes, all have grey shirts, grey trousers and grey socks,
All are happy, but their happiness is never complete, as later it's back to the children's home.

It's picnic time they sit in deep green grass each is given a neat folded brown paper parcel,
There's apples and oranges, some bread and cheese and a few penny sweets in a twisted bag,
Nobody speaks, they hold tight to their parcel as they eat lunch and they must eat all the crusts,
Then the lady in charge reads the register and shouts out names each say 'yes miss' then carry on,
But the very best of all is munching on Black Jacks and the fruit salad chews, what a great day,

The angels watch these sad little people and kneel with them at night saying their prayers,
They kneel by each child in the rows of beds and listen to the tiny sobs and see the tears,
Some speak to Jesus asking for a mum and dad, maybe their best friend could come along too,
And as the sobs quieten and tears dry on small faces the angels smile and hold their hands,
Falling into a deep sleep they dream the dream of dreams a new mum kissing away their pain.
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I felt it coming before it arrived

Two and half years ago my friend was diagnosed with lung cancer.
He was at stage 4; the prognosis was not for a long sickness.
We surrendered ourselves to this final ending.
Days became months and months turned into years 
We thought he was going to beat this evil.
He accepted chemotherapy with such determination and patience
But his resolve went on unhindered.
He submitted himself to radiotherapy with humour as they had
Tattooed his chest with markers, and to him it was funny.
For thirty months we felt the end coming, 
His breathing became obviously painful
He couldn’t swallow and probably suffered panic attacks when his
Throat closed and his food came back to haunt him.
I started feeling his end coming before it arrived.
I prayed that it would be peaceful and painless
And I held my breath when it looked imminent.
I tried to prepare myself
Through tears and sorrow 
I watched his shallow breathing with terror
And when the end came I was not ready.
Nothing in this world nor in my mind could have prepared me 
For the moment when I had to say
Goodbye to my brother, my mate, my best friend.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Blind Man

Imprisoned in a cloistered world that he can never share,
Touching and handling all objects that he will never see,
Hearing different voices from lips he can never look upon,
Suffering the churl's cruelty never even seeing the frown.

Grateful for any help being led but never seeing the smile,
So sad he has never looked at the face of a wife nor child,
Lead him up to a mountain with valley's full of wild flowers,
As beauty radiates across nature and the dark green fields.

His hands, like yours, his foot presses on a heathery carpet,
He feels the same flowers wild flowers shrink in his weight,
The selfsame breezes fanning us all our warm faces cooled,
He feels the same warm glow of sunshine beating on his brow.

He can hear the bleating of a wild goat as it skips the peaks,
The shrill cry of the kite as floats around his rock bound nest,
A mountain torrent warbles it's notes and far away a vesper bell,
Ringing from a distant church adds to the magic of our nature.

He cannot look down on the spangled floor of beautiful flowers,
He misses the flitting clouds as they sail in on gossamer wings,
There morning horizons that bring a tear or no sunsets to sigh at,
In his total blackness he lives a life of solitude and loneliness.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Running shoeless

Black cherries
Platonic hearts
Remembering moments from the past
Climbing railings
Watching cars pass
Red, white, green and blue
A picture of a world I once knew.
Loss of breath
Running shoeless
Suffocating smoke filling the air
Angered cries
Too many lives
taken in like a fishing net.
We are only people in the end.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Prose Mine Prys

‘At play with words’

Cork thine eyes 
Cloaking lucent verbose halls 
Surely binding shutting tight 

Cork thine eyes 
Clutching goblet sipping falls 
Drunk seduction bending sight 

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

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

This poem explained

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

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

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

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

T.R.Sevrens


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Blood, again

blood again 
-
The two hovering faces are white and brown.
They seem to look nice, saying, “we’re in your side.”
She aches; both her sides ache; bruises, clotted blood; 
She sees them, two men with the force; denies to complain.
The trust has been lying killed, somewhere in her den.

Discharge means returning home, to the fear’s room, 
where he may return for tearing her more.
But she won’t dial for force, at least not before 
she has put six inanimate hates into him;
not before she has seen blood once again, not hers. 
=© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Heat

HEAT
WLM/KDW
Wildncrazy555
April 18, 2011

Waiting on the corner
Should we warn her
Of the approaching danger
Like a silent still ranger
She has been caught as a snitch
Out comes the evil, mean witch
We may to her have to slice
Into little pieces we love to dice
With a rock to her neck she will sink
After a while she will begin to stink
And no one will ever know
For through time she will never show
This is a terrible place
 Which has fallen from all of God’s grace 
We hope we may
Live through the day
And hope to always stay
To live another day



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Too much love all around gone too fast

Too much love all around gone too fast
as the clocks tick tock with the setting of the sun
and rising of the silver moon;
the flip of an hourglass
as she left out my front door,
not even thinking about using the back;
she left me for I "loved her too much,"

Yes, Too much love all around,
gone too fast,
as another setting of the sun
and rising of the silver moon,
as the flip of an hourglass
as she showed her back to me for one last time,
too much love all around,
gone too fast.

.2.21.2014.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

FU YOU

Passing cars        Lovers fighting        Friends joking        Strangers communicating       Our Universal Language        Is this the best we can do         Flipping the bird          This is the most well known universal form of sign language in our society today      Pathetic       What happened to our short lived peace sign         Apathetic                  Good Luck        We need it


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Cry From Kabul

(Written During The American Attacks On Afghanistan From The Arabian Sea) 

O! The heartless callous warriors, 
The children of the crowning age, 
You do not see the havoc, 
For you stand at the distant spot, 
More than two thousand miles away, 
Planning against the weaponless; 
But your lacerating missiles and shells, 
Miss not the targets, 
They hail down on us smashing, 
Blowing up the houses, 
And thatched cottages with their contents, 
Let, allow me bury, put in the ground, 
My infant grandson that lay motionless, 
In the cradle, all shredded, torn up, 
Still gripping tight in his hand, 
A baby doll with blue eyes and rosy cheeks, 
Sprinkled with blood too.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fading Away from my Past

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Womans Touch

The gates of hell have been violently open. The world begins to rumble and scatter in fear. Earth’s volcanoes spew magma and ash from its core. The clouds quickly gather as the thunder and lightning signal the wrath to come. Earth’s crust opens its mouth ready to swallow cities and nation’s whole. Suddenly a white and peaceful light emerges from the horizon. This elegant and stunning figure seems not all frightened by all the chaos. She gingerly kisses and hugs the tormented man. All of this madness was inside the man’s mind. The stress and pressure of life almost got to the man. Drugs and alcohol never gave him relief but all it took was a woman’s touch.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Queens with long velvet hair

Queens with long velvet hair
hear them scream in a twilight
as their hearts torn from their chests,
left to rot in a place that the Devil would never go near
and God looks down and nothing happens,
those once beautiful Queens with long velvet hair
lay prone in filth and dirtiness
of what love left for them.

.2.15.2014.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Derelict

I am, I guess, a tattered soul. 
A vagabond of sort. 
A derelict adrift at sea. 
No captain and no port. 

Nowhere to go, no one to guide.
This frail and haggard bark,
Aimlessly drifts out to sea, 
Piteously and stark. 

No pilot here the helm to take.
No first mate to assist.
Into oblivion adrift,
Into a dark abyss.

Will there one day a solace be?
Will nepenthe be won?
Can a sweet respite be found
Before my setting sun?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

LAUGHTER WINE

For years I drank
     laughter wine, aged on fears and depression;
(it seems that no one likes a pessimist).

Laughter wine served with plastic jokes
	and drunk from society's suffrage glass.

Sour laughter wine sours the spirit; 	
	sweet laughter wine is a better drink.

It is aged on the hope;
	The faith that social sufferings will end.

It is proper to drink Sweet laughter wine
	from your soul-glass.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

TO HURT TO CRY OR DIE

its true
i love you
changing you put me thur
make me mad
and sad
this is why and know lie
am
TO HURT TO CRY OR DIE


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Day After I Was Born

he day after i was born was a day seen tragic by members of blood. Thicker than water, but never stronger than the bonds of sons and mothers, suns and seasons, logic with reasoning, looking for reason to beseech the death of she. My mother. The day after i was born was exiled to the far corners of my mind. shunned by my inner fears of rejection. seen as the demon child, reconciled its falsehood, but couldn't clear the thoughts of these images due to insecurities. Everyday after the day i was born.,now seems meaningless. without her I've become a monster. something i'm ashamed to see in this mirror that stands in front of me. shattering  glass breaking apart reflections of this shell of a man i call self.self called of my own. Save m, save me from self. I can feel myself giving up like the virgins to their firsts. Giving way to damnation, born of sin, made a sinner, and overpopulating this sinner's nation.The days i knew of my mother were happy ones. Tales of her everlasting glow and charismatic charm, tiptoeing through me and reeling in my heart, bones of the sea serpent, fresh outta the water. Flailing about in the hopes of achieving freedom. Hooked on the memories. The day after I was born I envied those who lived before me, to know her essence, even my elder sister with whom a year exactly separates our bond. We both miss her dearly. & the day after I was born & everyday after ceased to exist, temporarily.

But the day i was born, my mother held me close as if i were her all. She told me,.. she told me, "I love you son."

Her first and only son. and hours later, she rested in peace. & I this shell of a man in the form of an infant, weeped in regret. Never to know her true compassion but for a moments glance. & I became her heir, the bastard child. Living with thoughts of her in mind. May she rest.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Speaking of Suicide

When folks get angry they rant and rave,
Some scream epitaphs,
others misbehave,

The really high strung
spew words of self hatred,
the drama occupies their minds,
venting is a way of chastising themselves,
or asking for help,

Words come out from their inner elves,
chanting tirades of ending one's life,
brings soberness and sheds light,

People who are serious don't talk about it
at all,
They may write a note and say "Goodbye Y'all"
Then one day they wake-up  and decide it
is their time......
Ending it all with no reason or rhyme.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Adieu

The telephone rings:

Joe: “Hello”

Judy: “Joe”

Joe: “Yes what’s up”

Judy: “It’s happening”

Joe: “I’m coming… I’m on my way”

Gloomy thoughts invade me as I am driving. My mind is looking at the past trying to revive some happy moments. And there are so many of them in my memory. All these hours we spent together working out the details of ambitious projects. As I picture in my mind both our homes I can see the marks our endeavours have made. All the times we talked our way through differences, I cannot remember us ever arguing. We admired each other because, I suppose, we complemented each other. His cautious approach to life and my careless attitude were at such contrasting poles that one could wonder how we ever achieved what we did together. It was our way of spending time together.
	My love for him is nearly obscene. I would have never allowed another woman other than Eliane to get so close to me, but this guy is more than a brother, so much more that it will hurt so much not to have him around. I cry for losing him and he is not gone yet.

……. I’m Knocking at the door

Judy: “He is slipping fast”

Joe: “My god, this is terrifying. I am not ready for this. I cannot start imagining how you must feel”.

Judy: “Nobody is ever ready. I am numb. I am trying to make some sense of all this but I can’t”.

Joe: “I don’t know what to say but I will desperately miss the bugger”.

	Adieu my friend, my brother. 
I cry for you. 
Am I selfish?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Staring into a Log Fire

One winter evening things played heavily my mind did I had courage to face these sad reminders,
Staring into a blazing fire I saw many things I saw mostly sad things hardly any happy memories,
Dream faces from shadows look accusingly it breaks my heart to be reminded how little I ever did,
Hypnotized into another world I dared to think of some of my blackest thoughts rods of pain hurt me,
Sitting in my chair cut off from the world sparks crack bringing me back to my bleak cold misery,
Ghosts cross the threshold of my memories using a hidden doorway very deep within my sad heart,
Drawing the heavy black curtains together shut out the twilight gloom to sit cut off from everything
Shut out the darkness as night descends it frightens me and reminds me of my nasty selfishness
Then I close the heavy doors and lock them tightly then it's silence the fire my conscience and me
Do I dare to have a rendezvous with long gone absent friends do I dare to let go and feel any emotions.
Or do I carry on with my wasted life leaving a footprint of disappointment and failure not ever caring.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Spoken

Spoken!


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

Ashley Hogan AH


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sadness is as Beautiful as an Angel

How many friendly faces do I see in my chambers of recollection as I call up retrospect,
Cherished scenes rush to mind as its pinions bear me to the times which won't ever return,
Scenes now changed and altered like visions in the deepest of dreams so deep you're there,
Scenes of flower filled fields accessed only by hedge rowed old lanes that no longer exist.

The old lanes where flowers breathed fragrances high into a blue watery sky of days gone by,
That changed into streets and main roads with the noise they bring as we rush through life,
Once these fields had cows and sheep on the slopes and valley's rang with the animals bells,
I once picked bluebells, picked blackberries, picked hazelnuts, with sunbeams for company.

To run like the wind chasing butterflies gently catching them and blowing them off my hands,
How uninterrupted the tides of unhappiness that ripples in the deep recesses of my old mind,
The unclouded days that bathed me in sunshine that cast its brightness across the landscape,
How brilliant the fairy scenes that floats from the canvases out of the caverns of the past.

My sorrow was deep in picture postcard days, days were sweet and long, but my heart swells,
There was no blind grasp of faith, realization began to attend its researches, observations,
A sorrow that has stood the test of time, a bitter sorrow that broke me then as it does now,
Beautiful sorrow, as beautiful as an illustration, as lovely as a flower, as beautiful as an angel.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Responses to Reflexive Daydream

But my love had wanted me to close my eyes. She awaited that moment for an eternity with
unrivaled patience. For she was in love with the water and waited only for me to close my
eyes so that her escape could happen without my perception. I was the scapegoat for my
love. What a cruel twist of irony: the reason I was unhappy would seemingly be of my
fault. How amazingly spiteful that the one I loved so much allowed me to wallow in
self-pittance while she made off with her true love. Her true love that lurked so calmly
undetected, yet was there the whole time. 

My love floated, dead, alongside my boat. I continued to ride as the boat smoothly and
steadily headed toward shore. In an almost humorous obedience, my love stayed alongside
the boat. Caught in the wake, her non-seeing eyes saw everything but saw nothing. Her
beauty was unharmed and the water made her shimmer and sparkle with the sun's rays. If
this was how it was going to be, I was okay with it. My love was happy. As I rode closer
to shore, my love's body slowly started to float higher up on the water. Her eyes became
less whited. As the boat slid up onto the soft, white sand, her laid half-in, half-out of
the lake. Without hesitation, I bent down and lifted her into my arms. As she awoke from
the sleep of death, she coughed and gasped. I whispered I love you as our embrace grew.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

No Death For The Weary

...I loved like a run on sentence mentally continuing thoughts of love lost silently withering away... & they would say my heart resembles barren land barely surviving the winter's harshest frost heaven had froze over hell to pay was the cost & based on our trials I sentenced myself into becoming a hollowed structure & I structured my spine into a physical slump so the world could see how hard it is for a mere human baring ungodly emotional weights I weighed... multiple options of opinionated open ended questions questioning us while sleeping eyes wide shut wishing our love would thrive like vines entangled around coffins wishing for a breath of fresh air to enter a corpse esophagus which meant... in order for us to appreciate such a love one of us would have to die & I'm still breathing... ...your death was a must...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Weeds

Eating the weeds from the grass you slept in last night.
Don't look down or you'll fall from the moon.

Can you pick yourself up?
can you make it home?
Jump, and hope god will save you.

No faith.

No G.O.D

Just you

Bruised and rotting
You make it seem easy

Dream in the fields of all those yesterdays
and pick the weeds for the hope of  tom marrow


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Tear

A single fear sliding
off the face as though clinging
for one's own soul.
Slipping from its home, only to
plummet into Hades' foul grasp
exploding into cascading oblivion.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Great Existence

Moving up over through 
Into
All I've known is felt through the end 
Never a beginning always ending
Falter as I may, myself I hold - alone in company 
Tress in to limestone pillars of my great hall 
Great as the Norse and proud as well
Threads of time woven with clumsy hands led by blind eyes 
Thus is the expanse of the web of life The Great Existence 
Not where but it's the being that is. Is what I am and 
What we are


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Are Things Which We Never Speak Of

There are things which we never speak of. There are things which never cross 
our lips. Even though our minds and eyes say them, we have an unknown fear of 
actually bringing them to audible words. For if they are heard, it is as though we 
are vulnerable. We are vulnerable to the only thing that we believe to control by 
ourselves. Thoughts like these are the ones that prevent us from opening up to 
the ones we trust. We feel as though we can’t share these thoughts without 
having some consequence brought to us. Even our closest friends and loved 
ones never know our innermost feelings. They do not truly understand where we 
come from because we lack the ability to express ourselves fully whilst having 
this fear of being vulnerable to openness. We don’t know if there will ever come a 
time that this fear will be wiped away and lack the inability of bearing ourselves, 
however, we must always believe there will one day be a time that we can do 
such.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Divine Intervention

Beautiful little girl
Devastatingly beautiful
The birds would start chirping when she walked past
Her mother’s daughter they all said
A mirror image
 
And suddenly she was shocked by love
5 years old being undressed like a doll
Caressed and bathed so lovingly
Such gentle touches
That no one suspected
 
Mother found a new piece to her heart
Wedding bells chimed
And a new father was born
5 years old she was…just 5
 
This beautiful little girl found love in her “new” father’s arms
He held her close, sometimes too close
But no one suspected
She didn’t know this love was pain wearing a mask
She learned that love was…
Shielded from the eyes of her mother
Night visits to her room from her father
Year after year
For 15 years this was the love she knew
 
She felt invaded, alone and abused
She told her mother
About her new father…the man her mother loved
She didn’t acknowledge, wouldn’t bring herself to see
What the water so clearly replayed in her view
The mother knew, just knew
That her husband would, couldn’t ever
Never…bring pain to his daughter, never
 
Little girl, what does it feel like to be loved?
It feels warm, and wrong but gentle
Strong hands unclothing you
Caressing your body as if you are a grown woman
With a glorified body to worshipped and pillaged over
Little girl, what does pain feel like?
Closed doors…darkness…my father…naked
Hopeless
 
Beautiful little girl
Devastatingly beautiful
Pain paraded as love
Molestation masked for discipline
When your daughter cries out
When she cowers in corners
And doesn’t trust the dark
When she says love is just another word
Just another synonym to let him abuse her
Trust what she has to say…
 
I was that beautiful little girl and now I am a woman plagued with fears
Some nightmares you cannot outrun
And some memories only God can wipe away
The blood of all my pain is on my mother’s hands
"I forgive you"
Beautiful they say…
It’s a mask for something more


Details | Prose Poetry | |

And I despise this house

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Tu Animam Tuam Perisse

The utterances were trophies; the claims fell upon opened ears, and the whispers danced hand in hand with blasphemies voiced from the heart, and I saw in the mouth of a lioness dead men formed in ranks, like soldiers unprepared to die, and their shields were made of shames, and their swords were made of lies.  When those lies cut the flesh, the victims did not bleed, but instead gave way to sin, harming those who were cut from the same cloth as they, and those holy kings said to the masses, hoc est opus dei [this is God’s work].  I sought to answer the question of why pain was inevitable, and why skies must shatter, and why visions must cloud as the Tempest gathered her cloak about her ethereal form and lent to the Earth her wrath and her tears, and I questioned the meaning of it all, soiling myself in woes as I witnessed the angels fall.  No words came to mind, no answers, no dreams beyond nightmares of running through unknown districts, in the night, from something sight could not quite make whole; no words save tu animam tuam perisse; you have forfeited your soul.

© 2012, Ryan Anthony Summers

From "The Grey Muse" ( http://www.amazon.com/The-Grey-Muse-ebook/dp/B006YDMR1C/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1326920167&sr=8-3 ).


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Bird in a Cage

There is a little bird that sings sad songs in her tiny wicker cage,
Her prison is situated against the side of a cold flint napped wall,
My heart and my thoughts understand how miserable and alone she feels,
She dreams of her past times when she was free in a sweet June valley.

Remembering glittering waters, green buds take her back to happy days,
When blossom filled the boughs of pear trees and sweet hawthorn hedges,
Flying, landing among brand new leaves sipping cool dew in the mornings,
Grass full of sweetest flowers bluebells, swinging and ringing, all gone.

The caged bird remembers careless days and hates her captivity and cage,
When living in the woods was fun, so much to do good friends all around,
But she got caught and put in a cage she was not watching a sad mistake,
It swells her heart almost to bursting she lost her freedom one sunny day. 

A man sits on a wall listening to the birds sad songs he understands why,
He had been a prisoner for many years in a country miles across the sea,
So he creeps up to the cage and opens the door for the poor little bird,
Flying out she hoovers to the man as she tweets there is a tear in her eye.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Alone

Glistening gently it sits alone,
Frozen in place, never twitching
It eyes softly chiselled, never blinking,
Full of fear and sadness.

Time does not affect it,
Merely bores it, frightens it.
No-one to care for it, no-one to love,
It sits watching and waiting alone.

Sitting on its haunches,
Waiting to move,
Waiting to roam free , 

The Hare sits afraid.

It dreams of greenlands,
Dreams of family,
It hopes to find it,
It hopes to escape.

No-one can help him but his master,
Only his cruel, master
Though he shan’t,
Darkness consumes his heart.
Only he can help but he shan’t….


Details | Prose Poetry | |

In The Dark

All alone in the dark, i can see nothing any which way i turn. I can hear nothing 
but the eerie calm of silence. My heart skips a beat as my imagination begins to 
plays tricks on me. How i got here, i do not know. I am just as clueless to where i 
am as to who i am. A name is such a simple and instinctive thing to know, but i 
do not obtain this basic knowledge of myself. I do not know my past nor my 
present. This darkness terrifies my senses and makes my insecurties take flight. 
I don't know if i will be able to survive such emptiness as that which surrounds 
me. I can feel it grabbing at me. It tears like claws into my soul. It has already 
taken my identity. The only thing left for it to steal is my life. Life is such a precious 
gift that one should not give up easily. We only recieve one, so why should 
something that doesn't deserve it be allowed to take it? The coldness is getting 
unbearble. My body shivers and shakes with the wind. I can feel my life slipping, 
but i won't give up... i can't give up something that i hold so dear. It will just have 
to rip the life from me.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Memories

They're coming after me. I try to hide, but they always find me. Even in the darkest 
corner, I'm not safe. The thoughts of what they'd do to me, nearly drive me 
insane. I am not afraid of them, I am terrified of them. I don't know what to do. 
How do I escape them? How do I free myself of them for good? They have found 
a way to tear at my heart. A way to enter my mind. If they find me, I'll be forever 
doomed. I can't allow them, the memories of my past, to break my soul.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hidden Emotions

We keep things hidden inside that we are too afraid to show. When we have 
nowhere to turn, we push our feelings down and try to pretend that they don't 
exist. We cover ourselves with a mask as though, with that mask, we are freed of 
our emotions. If we are lucky enough, our trick will work for a while until the 
inevitable happens and our hidden thoughts burst up and overwhelm us. They 
feed on us until we break down and face them. Tears help to wash away the 
feeling of helplessness and lonliness that can break us if we allow such to 
happen. We can never rid ourselves of these, but we can try to take control of 
them so they don't hurt as much.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Kiss The Sky

She held her breath as he passed, 
But that only made her transparent.
She swallowed her pride at last, 
And in her heart it became apparent.
She took rejection like a champion; 
Held her head up high; although she wanted to die.
She said to herself, never ever again, 
Will I let a man make me cry.
She carried on from day to day;
Displaying a warm smile- becoming cold inside;
Was competent in pretending that everything was ok, 
While silently making plans for one last ride.
She blew a kiss and said goodbye, 
To anybody who still might care;
Drove off the cliff, yet unable to cry
And blew away with the evening air.

Tonight she would kiss the sky.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Secrets

We must be careful when exploring the places we have tried to keep hidden. For 
once we open the door to those unrevealed places, we don't know what 
unforseen thing lies behind it. The secrets that we bury will return to us at a 
speed that we cannot stop. When we decide to uncover that which is repressed, 
we must bear the burden that comes along with such. We must carry the 
responsibility of what we discover.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Reflection

My eyes don't even dare look at my reflection. It is not my outside that bothers me, 
it's my inside. No one sees what I do not allow them to. I do not show them how I 
really feel and I do not show them my true self. I fear that if I show them my true 
self, that I will become vulnerable to them. If I do not share my heart, then I do not 
have to deal with the inevitable pain of it breaking. Lately, I do not know what to 
do. I feel myself becoming weak inside. I have allowed the outside world to 
influence my emotions. Sometimes I feel that if we had no emotions, that we 
would be alot better off. Emotions always end up ruining things and hurting us. I 
wish I could just become hard on the inside so that it wouldn't hurt or bother me 
any longer. If I had a shell around my heart then nothing could come close 
enough to harm it. Nothing would hurt me ever again.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Would you . .

If I told you of my pain, would you care
Would you understand and tell me you love me too
Or would you turn and walk away

If I wrote to you and spoke of my broken soul
Would you cry and whisper to me in the night
Or would you shake your head and leave me

If I told you of my hurt and where and when it was born
Would you feel the same way and tell me so
Or would you turn away and leave me behind

If I wrote to you and explained all my confusion
Would you understand and tell me its all going to be okay
Or would you throw me away like a . . . forlorn dream

If I screamed out all of my pain at losing you
Would you write to me and tell me you’ll stay instead
Or would you cut away all our ties 

If I stood before you and reached out my hand
Would you take it 
Or would you leave it empty and cry no more for me

If I told you I love you and have since . . .
Would you believe in me still 
Or see me now as a . . . façade of a lingered wish

If I whispered to you from your side of my soul’s . . .
Would you breathe of how much you care deeply for me once more
Or would you really tear me from your life

Would you . . .

Would you . . .

Will you . . .


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Good -Bye Sonny

Good -Bye Sonny



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

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

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


McCuen Copyright October 2008


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Why Can't I?

with sad choices,Oh Sad Voices, crying in the night
weeping pain, they cry in vain, they weep in sorrow, why can't I?
Piercing shrieks, they find their peak, within my heart
within my soul, they consume my insides, Consume me whole
Weeping Children, dying night, lives are ending before they start.
I hear their voices, I hear their pain, I hear them reaching for life again, they weep forever, they weep their 
plight, weeping in sorrow, Why Can't I?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

TOOTH ACHE

it make s your head turn
your eyes burn
it can't eat can't sleep
you do walk the beat
 its kept you awake
a
TOOTH ACHE


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My growth!

I had to say good bye to my beloved kitty, Sydney.  Syd-Syd as I called her, loved 
to be held.  Her favorite spot was on my shoulder, as if I were burping a baby, 
she would sleep there for hours if I would allow.  I would walk around with her 
there doing my work, never once was she disturbed.

Before I married, she'd join me in  praises to the Lord.  As I sang along  with my 
favorite tapes, she would dance around as if she were chasing angles in the 
room.  Always jumping, looking upward and having what seemed to be a smile 
on her face. This continued after I married too.

 My husband noticed her favorite place on my shoulder and called her ‘my 
growth’.  He thought she was a special little cat.

She was a great traveler!  She loved Nacho Chips or cheese,  so when we 
traveled, my husband loved feeding them to her because they gave her the 
smelliest gas in the world!  When we were in the car together with her, and then 
got blasted with a ‘pooter’ ... I would turn every shade of green imaginable, and 
he'd laugh!  Because of course .... 'my growth' was on my shoulder, so I got the 
full impact!

She was the pet that was with me the longest .... 20+ years!  She used to sit in 
my lap and we would have a ‘meowing’ conversation, this could go on forever!  
She would share .... (or should I say steal) bites of my peanut butter sandwiches, 
sneak a lick or two of my chocolate ice cream or Instant Breakfast, when my head 
was turned.

She outlived several of our dogs, and in the year without a dog, she became 
one.   So when we again had dogs,  my husband’s favorite, she continued sitting 
at our feet begging with our dogs.  Then there came a time to return to my 
shoulder.  The last few years she spent in front of the heater or curled in bed 
under the covers at my side.  She sometimes would sleep on a pillow next to 
mine, and occasionally stretch herself across my head,  I’d wake to a paw in my 
eye or ear.  If I made a move she disapproved of, she let me know in no uncertain 
terms. Yeah, I’d say she was my growth!

I guess she was so much a part of me, that she had become ... ‘my growth’.  I 
know that now I feel a huge void in my life and household, because of that frail 4 
lb kitty, when we had her put to sleep.  That small cat made a HUGE gaping hole 
in my heart now that she is gone.  I loved her so.  I miss 'my growth'!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

You Are = You're

   You're leaving me for  no reason.
 You're going away, and never coming back.
 You're under stress with things on your mind.
You're on the phone, while I have no one to talk to.
 You're out, while I'm cooped up in this crazy house.
You're packing, while I'm watching you go.
 You're not saying a word, while I have lots to say.
 You're out the door, while I can't move.
  You're on that flight, as I watch you go through the window.
 You're gone, while I cry every night.
You're getting engaged, while nothing's working for me.
  You're in another world, while I'm back here fighting.
  You're getting married, while I think about what we used to have.
You're having a baby, while I cry like one.
 You're growing old with the love of your life, while I just died.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

3Fabel3 Part Two

The day was almost over the length of shadows added to the horror the suicided 
failure as eye kicked the step away from the very air eye breathed only to discover 
that the rope that eye had lengthened only added more to links already there until 
my feet quite reached the floor and the suicide was haltered when the noose 
quite simply hit the floor. Yes eye commited suicide yet now eye am still quite 
alive and living in my love. Eye have uncovered the secret of the screen the 
gamma rays are there in the background when they are lessoned the blue turns 
dark there is a control eye found marked cool. The computer hurts my lidded 
brow much less now. Blackstone's characterization of property rights as "sole 
and despotic dominion which one man claims and exercises over the external 
things of the world, in total exclusion of the right of any other individual in the 
universe," the exercise of this fabel is now exercised for ewe she owns the 
poems too. 
          Hemp Rope 

Natural hemp rope, hand-twisted in Romania into 50 foot bundles of various 
diameters. Made from dry-spun hemp yarns, this rope is traditional hemp rope 
unchanged and in continuous use for centuries. Naturally mold and mildew 
resistant, this rope is suited for outdoor as well as indoor use. A classic product 
with a truly rustic and natural look. You'll get years of use for out of this hemp 
rope regardless of the application. 
Look at this last line gentile reader a glitch most certainly or just a mistranslation 
it must be why the eye is still alive and the rope just did not hang me. The Law of 
Blackstone is now the one of Livingstone eye presume. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

FUNNY MONEY

don't take it
might not fit
get wit
the way it came
was it work or fame
or from some pain
who is the blame
some one call you honey
AND GIVE YOU
FUNNY MONEY


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Smoke Signals to Jesus

Came, Sprawled couch,
 
His voice getting softer and softer
 
Slim
   Prayer,
Cheap sloping gimmick of N|Nature,
Madly 
Reaching
   Grabbing last splash
         of
Downed B|Banjo Bourbon… 
 
Mysterious radio Volume,
 
To Compromised bouncing,
 
As Middle of the Highway unrolled and Hugged
 
W|While they kissed and fooled Around.
 
Shadows fell across the Side-Walk
 
Shortly thereafter and Picked us Up.
 
Us in the Non-Plural

And non-Specific
 
Sense
 
And in other words
 
It wasn’t me
 
And I Didn’t see it Happen, Officer.
 
It was: Sullen Clouds with Guns, 
 
Shiv-Packing Ghosts of Spent Bodily Fluids, 
 
Thin Noncommittal Air and Water Junkies,
 
Suicidal Reverse Satellites Sodomizing Planet Earth without a Condom
 
And the Occasional Well Dressed middle-aged Detective.
 
 
 
“I once... was completely broke”
 
“and all I could dream about Was one last, long and perfect Cigarette”
 
“abandoned on a nice cool bed of grass"
 
"just waiting for me to lay there"
 
"Stare up at the sky, incinerate it"
 
"And send smoke signals on up to Jesus.”
 
 
Now wherever I go, 
 
I toss un-smoked Cancer onto lawns
 
In some feeble attempt 
 
T|To Send Help 
 
To me 
 
From the Future.
 
“As Far as I Can Tell”
 
“So far... It hasn’t Worked”
 
 
 
I Once Spat at the Sun and Missed
 
(For whatever Reason and Why)
 
And That night The Moon camed Unhinged with a Childish Squeal.
 
Fell One Mile (or However Far Heaven is Away)
 
And Landed, Splat on my Heart.
 
Its Been Broken Ever Since...
 
But lately 
 
I've Decided Not To try 
 
                       and Fix the C+Cracks.
 
They seam to Let the Light In.
 
 
Yes, Officer, Yes
 
 
(But Really, 
 
             I am in tune with the copulating rhythm of the Universe)
 
 
It Just Doesn't know how to Keep a Beat.
 
(And in Other Words)
 
(Yes, Officer, Yes)
 
I Am Implying that Tonight
 
I Called you He{a}re
 
To Report that the Universe
 
Just Stepped on my Toes.
 
(And I Would Like to File Charges)
 
 
 
--- "uh... Sir... I'm here about the car on Fire in your Front lawn..."
 
 
 
"Yes... I Know"
 
 
-thend-
 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Reflexive Daydream

We slowly sailed across the placid, blue surface. The profound silence was erupting from
all around. Across the lake, I saw a pair of birds flutter from treetops into the deep
blue lake above us. The Sun was a cherry yellow and everything I laid eyes on was alive in
its reflective radiance. Our boat made the tiniest whisper as it moved over the water. My
nostrils were filled with the intoxicating smell from my lover as we drifted ceaselessly
onward over the calm water. 

But suddenly, clouds exploded above. The Sun disappeared behind the darkness of the storm
cloud. An acrid wind began to blow harshly:  the trees began to bow. Our hair was whipped
about us. The chaos replaced serenity lightning created blinding cracks amongst the black
sky. The once smooth surface of the lake became turbulent with waves that threw our
helpless boat about. I closed my eyes and gave in.

The storm stopped. I opened my clenched eyelids. There before me sat an empty half of my
boat. Not one memento of my love remained. As I drifted onward, soaked and somber, slowly
the boat cried out the only evidence of what took place. The sky seemed paler and the sun
no longer cheery, Now unforgiving and hot. My eyes stung and the trees were pastel. The
water below me was hated and unforgiven. Slowly, beside the boat, my love's beautiful body
began to cry and my apologies fell upon her un-hearing ears. I had learned my lesson. I
begged for a second chance.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

3FABEL3

 3FABEL3 
3FABEL3 
 
Lynching 
 
 
Murder is an art form abused by those critters in a hurry to perform a judgement 
call and then scurry off on horses to hide from the real law. 
There is some western hearoes who still hate the Negroes and do not have 
them on the list of living beings in their repertoire of Johnny law. The rope is tied 
in the noose with thirteen winds some say a wind for every step up the gallows 
planks thirteen of them to give the thief a long time to prepare for Hell. We will 
stretch his neck we will hang him high we will send him on his journey to the sky 
they hammer on the gallows while the thief he sits in cell and cries uncertain of 
his future after that and eye suppose there should have been a preacher in all 
those western movies to come in and comfort them the brothers waiting there. In 
desert news in otherworldly tensions there is many promises given of 
conciliations taken from the left hand and given to the behind the back and then 
back to the right this is called the we will do this for you and then no of course we 
do not want to do this not at all syndrome. Also eye have noticed on this internet 
the use of ads is popping up increasing tension in the viewer designing limits on 
the use of money is the income of a prisoner soon increasing is the wealth of 
money belts investing blooming idiots are stealing more to pay for kitchen 
hardware and the laptops on the floor of the living room with HDTTV the 
SuperBowling friends were over just now Johnny Law was at the door way saying 
hey and did you let them in no you just slammed the slamming door way in the 
faces of the lawmen. 
  charlax valentine, here is a copy of the HiCard you 
sent. Since it was mailed to you, it will appear 
that you sent it to yourself. The real card was 
delivered exactly as you saw it previewed. 
The condemned man walked up the steps to the thirteenth story. 
Rope is sometimes frayed in the movies the rope breaks the thief falls to the 
grounded mound and jumps the saddle rides away into the night on horseback 
getting bullets in his gun by magic on the run then fighting back. 
The Hangging Judge in Fort Smith scared me so badly eye can never hold a gun 
in my left handed again. Besides the neck does not look good when rope is tied 
so tightly in the nooses neck. The Arizona Kid hung up his spurs the day the tree 
split into crosses from the lightning bolt surmising that his LORD was not well 
pleased with him that day the Sherriff made his play. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Smoke Signals to Jesus

Came, Sprawled couch,
 
His voice getting softer and softer
 
Slim
   Prayer,
Cheap sloping gimmick of N|Nature,
Madly 
Reaching
   Grabbing last splash
         of
Downed B|Banjo Bourbon… 
 
Mysterious radio Volume,
 
To Compromised bouncing,
 
As Middle of the Highway unrolled and Hugged
 
W|While they kissed and fooled Around.
 
Shadows fell across the Side-Walk
 
Shortly thereafter and Picked us Up.
 
Us in the Non-Plural

And non-Specific
 
Sense
 
And in other words
 
It wasn’t me
 
And I Didn’t see it Happen, Officer.
 
It was: Sullen Clouds with Guns, 
 
Shiv-Packing Ghosts of Spent Bodily Fluids, 
 
Thin Noncommittal Air and Water Junkies,
 
Suicidal Reverse Satellites Sodomizing Planet Earth without a Condom
 
And the Occasional Well Dressed middle-aged Detective.
 
 
 
“I once... was completely broke”
 
“and all I could dream about Was one last, long and perfect Cigarette”
 
“abandoned on a nice cool bed of grass"
 
"just waiting for me to lay there"
 
"Stare up at the sky, incinerate it"
 
"And send smoke signals on up to Jesus.”
 
 
Now wherever I go, 
 
I toss un-smoked Cancer onto lawns
 
In some feeble attempt 
 
T|To Send Help 
 
To me 
 
From the Future.
 
“As Far as I Can Tell”
 
“So far... It hasn’t Worked”
 
 
 
I Once Spat at the Sun and Missed
 
(For whatever Reason and Why)
 
And That night The Moon camed Unhinged with a Childish Squeal.
 
Fell One Mile (or However Far Heaven is Away)
 
And Landed, Splat on my Heart.
 
Its Been Broken Ever Since...
 
But lately 
 
I've Decided Not To try 
 
                       and Fix the C+Cracks.
 
They seam to Let the Light In.
 
 
Yes, Officer, Yes
 
 
(But Really, 
 
             I am in tune with the copulating rhythm of the Universe)
 
 
It Just Doesn't know how to Keep a Beat.
 
(And in Other Words)
 
(Yes, Officer, Yes)
 
I Am Implying that Tonight
 
I Called you He{a}re
 
To Report that the Universe
 
Just Stepped on my Toes.
 
(And I Would Like to File Charges)
 
 
 
--- "uh... Sir... I'm here about the car on Fire in your Front lawn..."
 
 
 
"Yes... I Know"
 
 
-thend-
 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

To Someone Who's More Than A Friend

Why all the time you always acting like you isn't hurt
And really inside you feel like dirt
When you told me to call you, when I get older
I thought about everything 
I ever said and wrote about you
That seemed cool with me cause we ain't getting no younger
Still always in my heart you are my friend I'll  always hang on to you no matter 
what we go through
You my friend is tight
But I know  me and you know
In life everything isn't right
We both have unique minds
And for you boy I'll always have time
I remember when you said
"Get money, forget girls "
My homie always keep your head up
And do what you do 
I remember at one point of time I wanted you so bad
Everything that day went so wrong
And I found myself so sad 
Call me when you get a little older those where the last words we said on the 
phone.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Always

An errant wind ruffles the
surface of the lake,
disrupting the satin sheen,
quicksilver becomes watered silk.

The breeze caresses the old man
and he looks up in wonder
as he sees the spirit of God
moving across the face of the water.

                      He loved you always.

The wind is no more than a gentle sigh.
The old man sighs with the wind.
Memories plague his psyche.
Ruefully he smiles, he must protest:
Life is not short, it is interminable.

                      He  loved you always.

A grey cloud scuttles across the horizon.
He rubs a weathered hand across his face.
His heart sits like a stone in his chest.
The lake and the sloping yard and the
ancient trees and the old man long for you,
for the gaze of your eyes,
the touch of your hand,
for your mere presence.

                      He loved you always.

He ponders the errors he knows he made.
He is wounded by your impatience.
The sky begins to weep as the tears
run down the old man's face.
The surface of the lake pings as the
old man rises wearily.
The sky is shattered.

                       He loved you always.

He slowly makes his way up 
the broken path,
laid with such great love
so long ago, hardly able
to bear the weight of 
his memories.
He was once your resident hero.

                        He loved you always.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fabel Twelth

 Fabel Twelth     
 
 
Author Message 
Admin
Admin



Age : 53
Joined : 13 Jun 2007
Posts : 720

 Subject: Fabel Twelth   Today at 14:08      

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
Fabel Twelth

Moral Inventory

Charlax Fables

The four thousand year old day

The end of a day is somehow better than the beginning eye carefully left my roll 
and hid my blanket in the place eye like to find it hoping no one goes there it is 
still quite cold eye lost some composure when the Jogger ignored me and 
proceeded onto the bridge quite rudely so early to an old man in a hurry eye was 
almost jogging myself HE came at me like he is used to better days he expected 
me to jump frog out of his way eye yelled at him “ NO” eye said “you SAW me on 
this bridge” and then eye rudded him eye BUMPED him with my bag just one of 
three eye always carry just in case of rain. He kept his tongue and made me think 
that he is mute perhaps he cannot speak perhaps he is one of them? He 
seemed so strang to me like someone not even there perhaps an ANGEL sent 
to test me to see iff eye was there? But yet the BIBLE clearly states that JESUS 
tests or tempts no man so where was HE from? This Jogger made me mad. 
Everything else was bent from that one chance encounter eye have been a bad 
boy in the middle of my night but it’s all for love ewe the bus was late and 
sometimes the driver lets people off same side they call it but today he decided 
everyone must go to the bus stop and wait in the snowless cold and it made me 
an hour late and no one gives me love the lieberrian is so depressed she cries it 
seems she just does not have enough? Can someone give me love no only 
ewe. No Matter how rude no matter how smart they ain’t tough there is no 
substitute for tough not big or mean but eye am tough. Buyer beware eye am a 
survivor. 
 
           
 
 Fabel Twelth 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Transitions

The natural flow
Of each life into the next world,
Hard to grasp at times,
Cruel, heartless, yet natural??

Mark Trotiner, musician,
Friend, teacher to me
Lighter of rooms on entry,
Suffering misunderstandings,
As we all do,
Blessed with lovely daughters,
Meaning the world to him,
Borderline genius,
I would venture to say...

I trust God has accepted him
With the love he warrants,
I will walk a little sader,
From this day on,
For I have lost a friend,
One who helped me through hard times,
One who held my respect,,
No easy chore, believe me
He's playing with the greats now,
To his family, my condolences,
I too weep tonight.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

An Open Letter to all my Poetry Soup Pals

This community should only control Congress, the sh_t would stop flyin, the 
politicos stop lyin'.....You guys are great...
To Wilfredo Derequito; thanks, buddy, you're right, I am too old- but I'm still one 
dam_ good rockin' musician!!  Besides, have you seen a recent picture of Mick 
Jagger?  I seen mummies that looked younger. And, I sympathize (along with the 
devil)...how you got to that 19th Nervous Breakdown....I mean, all those years of 
un-Derequito'd love, gotta take it's toll...ha,ha.  Best regards, buddy,....tom

and to Shar...you are so sweet a person, but I gotta admit I got back 100 times 
the love and satisfaction from my Dad...he even taught me to love music of the 
30's and 40's, and he often jammed with my band (harmonica- he was the best!!)
He was not only my father, but my best friend, my bar-buddy, my assistant cook,
and my confidant....( I am an excellent cook...)...he brought me more joy than I can 
relate....I was the lucky one.... which made losing him (a year long struggle that 
greatly tested my ability to "hang-in there")

and to Chrisy...hi sweetie, so glad to hear from you...God Bless

Later, dudes and dudettes......tom


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Made Of Misery

Shuffling along
with the rest of the herd,
noticing the nuances
of the livestock,
slowly feeling 
the numbing pulse,
       shake through my body,
twisting my soul
to match the cull.

It almost
    slips past
         my senses,
the slow.
       draining
             of my.....self,
but I do catch it
and release my horde
from my abyss.
Scorching the landscape
back to the ash encrusted ravines
       and jagged,
               crumbling cliffs
that fit
         my troops.

Misery is
leading my minions
on the siege of this
          blissful mosaic,
scattering the enemy forces,
like pigeons on the sidewalk
as a child runs through
their flock.

The skies are splattered
with blood,
as the orangeness of
desolation sets in.
Then as the scene
reaches epic beauty,
a casym splits my battlefield,
like a black bolt of lightening
running across the ground,
festering with unrefuted dispair,
causing a shockwave
                        of immobility
to pass through both ranks,
turning the battleground
into a garden of terracotta
soldiers.

Some shatter,
like a ceramic vase,
as the dispair settles
back into the earth,
leaving my castle,
              under reconstruction,
untouched.
For the brick of depression
I've used to rebuild my walls
are impenetrable to the likes 
                       of this.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Black

   I  am walking through the dark  tunnel below the old, supposedly haunted house. My God,
is it ever nerve wracking. The pungent smell of must   permeates my nasal cavity. I can't
see anything due to the blackness, the evil, piercing black.  Even my own hand, only an
inch or so from my face, is unseen, shrouded in darkness.
   I begin hearing a strange rustling sound behind me. I shrug it off.  Again I hear it,
this time followed by whispers, sounds of talking, and even laughter.  
   "It's only my imagination,"  I say.    Slowly the sounds become louder, and I turn just
in time to see the blood red eyes staring at me through the black.