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Prose Poetry Time Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Time

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

When the Time is Right

For nearly 45 years I never spoke of  that day; the emotional pain was too great.
I simply hid it in the lining of my soul, knowing in my heart you didn’t stand
a chance with me as I stood in the rubble of my life and let you go, wrapped
in my heart with a wish and a prayer- all I had to give. And for 45 years, 
I dreamed of you and me playing in fields of daisies under blue skies as
I cried inside, wondering where you where, and if there was a part of you  
that somehow would remember me- would remember the bond we made 
in that single moment we shared together, when the nurse held you up to the
nursery window for me to see as I  stood on wobbly legs, with my trembling 
hands holding unto a pole with a dripping IV?

I prayed. Lord! How I prayed that someday, by the grace of  God, 
you’d come back to me when the time was right. 

So I lived my life. Got back up and crawled out of the rubble that was me, 
and lived with half a heart that somehow still managed to beat.

With the passing of  time, I bloomed; sometimes red, sometimes blue when I thought of all the years we could have shared as I sat and listened to family and friends 
tell me of the joyful times they shared with their children, grandchildren 
and great-grandchildren as, I  smiled and  cried inside and dreamed of you, 
and all the years of your life I  missed and, all the years I would never know. 
It was then I realized I was a very lonely soul. So, I wrote and wrote and
wrote, never suspecting for a moment that  nearly 45 years later,
you would find me through a poem I wrote for you.

I know I can never replace the mother and father who raised you, for the bonds
of time shared  are  much stronger than blood. Yet knowing what a wonderful 
women you turned out to be, beautiful, intelligent, compassionate  
and now with a daughter  of your own, is enough for me, and someday  
when the time is right for you, I hope and pray , we will meet again.

                                               ~~~~~~

                                                 Elaine George 


This is a true story.  It was through this forum ( poetrysoup ) my birth daughter found me. 



Details | Prose Poetry | |

BEAUTY IN THE EYES OF THE BEHOLDER

Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder
It’s a common saying that is decoded from the look of a man
But of a truth, genuine and true beauty is beyond what the eyes can see
Only the heart can feel it
It glows with such power, even the ‘blind’ will perceive
Regardless of our status, rich or poor
Aboriginality, the language or cultural background
We all can see and perceive this inner beauty with the same view
One advice for my fellow brothers,
Always by pass the look go straight inward
And from the inward, outward appearance can be well appreciated
And advice for everyone
As you take time to make up the physical beauty
Create more time to nurture the inner one
For when you are inwardly ugly
The outward projection is nothing but a fake 

(c) 2010


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Certainty and the Shade of Seven More Months.

He's infuriatingly...

pretty...

and I follow myself over his smile to find my eyes, promising uncertainty and chewing on
my bottom lip with the hunger that resides in...

love...

He rolled me over and kissed my dreams, his mouth became my salvation and I nailed myself
to the bedpost as we made love, my legs became morning while I screamed midnight to the
dawn...

and I had never seen such a beautiful sunrise, I had never seen the beginning color herself so
strangely...

I told him, as our eyes appeared shallow, as the light dimmed and he breathed summer on my
neck...

“Blue is blue, Dear, don't try to shade it with red.”

But he explained to me the art of bruises, he informed me the results were beautiful, and
he held up a mirror to my unmarked skin, places where the black and blue and...

purple...

has dissipated...

while he sheltered my chest with his hand, covering my heart with his palm, and told me
the results still beat...

in.me.

I cried, tears of the rain that once fell in April, and he held me, time slipping between
us, beads of sweat that spoke eternity and seven more months, and I spoke silently so he
could hear me, I whispered his name...

“God, you're beautiful,” he said on the second I realized the sadness had left me, that
she had found content and was studying the games we never played with the fascination of a
child, I touched his cheek with the surreal movements that occur when one has fallen and
been caught and smiled at the thought of us...

I sacrificed my pain that night, I handed it straight over to midnight when the day broke,
I blended the sunrise with blue and watched the sky turn purple with him right beside me,
I counted the minutes to eternity and he laughed at my obsessions as he told me I was...

beautiful...

as he drank my belief off my left shoulder with a kiss...

and I looked at him, in the light, my eyes deep with the memories of the sea, as I kissed
him, with a certainty I never questioned as tomorrow started forever...

and he would live inside me
for seven
more
months.




Details | Prose Poetry | |

Seasons and Imaginations


Wind so cold.
Blowing.
Fondles my face.
Tickling.
The tears from heaven.
Pouring. 
Tapping. 
Dancing.
Unrelenting.
I wonder if i wish
    to stop them
From numbness,
    to waking,
          then sensing.

The little voice in me says,
Wait, don't go.
Stay a little longer. I plead.
Sing for me today, rain.
With the gliding rhythm on my piano,
                                                  I'll play.
Chilly Wind, caress my bare skin 
     with the pure coldness that you bring.
Unusual,
     like it's my first time in the snow.
Somehow, 
     the fire tree never fades in the picture.
The yellow sunkissed leaves, too.
What is it about Summer and Fall
    that I can't forget?
Memories. Sweet imaginations.

The chilly rain. The misty wind.
You are here. 
Freeze me with the sharp coldness you give.
Calm me. Maybe, comfort me.
And, if you leave
Will you visit me when summertime comes?
Before it gets too late
   And again I fold.



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 | |

LOST

Being lost seems to be my only option these days
Confusion appears to outweigh common sense in my life
My ability to reveal truth from lies has wreck havoc on my brain
I now strive to train my thoughts to linger in limbo
Never truly desiring to leave
This is now my fortress my solitude
Fear/Despair/Lies/Failure
As I clutch my razor and feel the etching of the sharp metal
I’m forced to think back to a time when
I had a dream, had a plan, had a voice
Now all I have is just a corner 
Not even my corner
As my peripheral view is constantly reminded of
Your pathetic attempt to hold on to the past
To a woman that I’m sure was drowning as am I
In the room of torture, clutter and stale air
She has now become my hero
Because she mustered enough strength 
To run and start anew
New this sounds foreign to me
My tongue has difficulty allowing 
The syllables to dance off my lips, mouth
I have to stop and regain my composure
Hope is something of the past
Hope is no longer associated with me
I now live in a corner stationed between
Past & Despair
Robotic movements mimic life
But as you approach you stand to smell
The vile carcass of my flesh slowly dying
Despair is my friend
Past is my new position in life
I had peace, love and happiness once
I felt it flee each and every time I
Entered your suffocating presence
Mister Kill Joy you have successfully
Accomplished your task of
Killing Me!!!!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Angel with a Broken Wing

Sitting alone again, wondering if you're okay.
being alone, i remembered how i wanted you to stay.
looking for something I can hold on to.
It's the pillow that reminds me of you.

Every time the clock ticks,
I would always find a way to entertain myself &
hoping i can do some magic tricks.
before i close my eyes & go to sleep,
every night , i hope, i can be w/ you for just a glimpse.

every time it rains, i would always go outside,
but i guess no one would like to hold my hand & be by my side
I touched my face & i was already crying under the rain.
will there be someone willing to cast away all this pain?

until now, no one would risk,to wipe off these tears.
The shadow of my past, well those are my fears.
i always want to hide myself from this world's madness.
I often feel that I'm inside a bubble or in a dark sanctuary,
where there is sadness.

I hope there will be a wishing star that will pass by.
I'll make another wish,to find the guy who cant make me cry.
i sat at the corner of my room, and in my hand, was a ring,
a question that even i cant answer,
"will i forever be waiting like an Angel w/ a broken Wing"?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

love ewe and blue

love ewe and blue 

aer rhyming words true
there is always inflection and poor attitude
limits of knowledge above snobbish refrains
trains run on time only in the movies
movies run on time only in a small town
there is very few movies shown on trains
blue can be an attitude blue can be a heart
love you can be used to start a heart apart from you
as you watch the blue southern train depart
from the blue stunted depot with the board walk floor
the little blue conductor yelling all aboard her
as the train takes the love and makes your attitude blue
soup mix tastes so wordy so blue so true and good
with a doubly heaping helping of a love ewe attitude


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 | |

Time, Take Me Away

Peering out my bedroom window, 
alarm clock's beeping time away. 
although the hour's ticking on 
time has stopped; forever gone... 

a burning torch has lit the sky 
field mice toil through cedar pine 
a parrot tidies up her nest 
hatchlings clamor at her breast. 

In my mind, I've drifted off 
to places where "old" time can't go. 
I daydream here and stay a spell 
however long, I could not tell... 

enshrouded in a cloud of dust, 
streetlamps warm sand flies. 
rain clouds slip behind the moon. 
tree frogs croak in tune. 

I can't remember where I went 
or how long I'd been gone. 
but here, I'll linger knowing I'm 
just fond of wasting time... 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Lies That Exist in Her Peripheral Vision.

She held onto Saturday, with hands calloused and nails bitten

down

to the quick...her eyes saw sunlight and denied it's presence while she rocked, back and
forth, back and forth, to the ticking of a dishonest...

clock.

He told her, in words that cut the air as they fell from a razor sharp tongue, that she
still played the part of the victim, her little girl costumes uncomfortably small, and she
refused to hang herself up, for she had memorized the part and her voice knew

nothing
else.


Her lips parted, still stained with kisses and dripping with the acidic burn of
yesterday's stale tears, and she whispered the truth about choices as she unknowingly lied
to herself

again.

He handed her the script with a brush to her cheek, and she shook her head as life tumbled
viciously around her face, her peripheral  vision capturing sight of years long past, and
she informed him that she couldn't read it, she told him she was

scared.


He took her hand and taught her how to smile with the slight tickle of fingers that danced
across a lifeline that posessed trails she was ignoring, he showed her how to not walk
backwards and
the appearance of Sunday if she didn't 

trip.


She discovered the moment she was stuck and moved herself beyond the sunset, misty skies
so old that colors had faded and maybe yesterday wasn't as pretty as she thought, maybe 

Sunday

didn't lie, and she came to an understanding as she straightened and tossed her sight to
the windows that glimmered with afternoon light...

that glistened with the reflection of twenty years past the weekend and the eyes of a
woman that had seen the formation of a smile

on
Monday.




Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sand Castles

Upon a beach I came to stand
And watched a child at play. 
He did while playing in the sand
A point of life convey. 

With scoops and buckets he did build 
A structure tall and grand. 
And to the child the beach did yield 
A castle made of sand. 

But as he left, I do recall, 
Away I did not turn. 
And with the coming night would fall
A lesson to be learned. 

The tide came in, with force did strike, 
The castle could not stand. 
And I was shown how life is like
A castle made of sand. 

And man is but a child at play, 
His works they will not last. 
For all he builds within days
Shall be by time surpassed. 

Each thing we do, Each thing we say, 
Each notion we conceive,
They all to soon shall pass away, 
Yes, this I do believe. 

We leave no mark, we leave no trace
That shall forever stand 
Be sure my friend time will erase
Our days however grand.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ghosts of South Dakota part 4

	Of course on this night we are supposed to be asleep so Santa 
could come, but we hadn't been home from Midnight Mass very long, and the 
invigorating cold was not conducive to sleep.  Even the hot chocolate did not do 
much to help sedate the excitement.
	We were hoping for sleds that year.  The snow was perfect for 
sledding especially like we did it.  We tied out sleds on behind the car or pick up 
and were pulled through the hills.  We got our sleds.  My dad and my uncle made 
them for us.
	No television and only in the late years were we allowed to use the 
radio.  Batteries were to expensive for frivolous use.  We spent many hours 
playing cards or games.
	I took time out and went to high school and college and got my 
teaching certificate.
	My aunt taught there only one year after the Federal Government 
turned the schools over to the local government.
	The last time I was back there the out buildings had been moved and 
Indian families were living in them.  The school was dirty and unkept.
	Now the school is gone.  The ancestors who once walked these 
dusty plains are gone.  The Indians who were there when I was a child are gone.
	They are Ghosts.  Ghosts whose faces can be seen in the clouds.  
Ghosts  who still chop wood on those sub zero nights.  And the drums we heard 
in the middle of the nights are still beating.  They beat as strongly as the heart 
beats in a healthy body.  The laughter of the children still echoes under the 
bridge.
	The life blood of a culture, of a nation grows thin.  The Battle of 
Wounded Knee was the last battle to be fought  between the white man and the 
Indian on the northern plains.  It's cries still echo across the land.
	My foot prints in the creek did not last any longer than those they left 
in the dust.  But in my memories, this mile and a half by three quarter mile haven 
still lives.  And will live forever as a piece of unrecorded history.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Lonely Grave

1

I stood by your graveside this cold winters day.

A heart broken with sorrow that won’t go away.

I called out your name and shed many a tear.

And hoped in my heart that you would appear.

2

God took you from us that fine sunny morning.

Our lives now shattered without any warning.

Your work here on earth has finished this year.

Your books and teachings you spread  far and near.

3

It was a pleasure to know you for sixty odd years.

And when my time comes I will have no fears.

You will be waiting to greet me as oft times before.

When I call to your house and knock on the door.

4

Each night when I lay my head down to sleep.

I will ask the lord your soul to keep.

And if you find any time away from your books.

Look kindly on me as I walk in those woods.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The mind is a terrible thing to Waste (Getting Understanding) pt.2

Mr. & Mrs. America have you ever been bonded down by your own self made shackle's, and
could not, no  matter how hard you tried. You couldn't find your way out, and your so called
friend's will give advice, and that lead to your mouth with a bad "taste". "The mind is a 
terrible thing to Waste". Some of the most provocative stories ever written came about while
one was incarsarated and time was all there was to influence the mind, not to go empty.
 "A mind is a terrible thing to waste", yet still in my mouth there's a bad taste. In this jail do-
ing time, stuck with these shackle's and it's blowing my mind. All at the same time, my mind
since not to haste and my benevolent curiousity is what strengthen the process of the incon-
sistence of time. "The mind is a terrible thing to Waste".
One need to Understand the basic substance of life. Faith-which results from the evidence of
hope and the transquility of things not seen, and that transquility is what replace the taste in
your mouth and in your waste. "The mind is a terrible thing to Waste".
 Mr. & Mrs. America, and all abroad, what shall you do(?) when the shackle's are gone, and 
so are the dark places of your travel. In the new (you) the creator of life-yes him who 
created these blemishes that rattles our cities and forsakes the mind. He's so philosophically-
omnipo-tent himself, that he and only him can resuscitate's the problems of time and the 
understanding the "greator of him that's in me". You Mr. & Mrs. people's of all issues of the 
chase of life. {Understand} "The mind is a terrible thing to Waste".


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Yearning for Frost Flowers

I yearn for when my troubles were as frost flowers; when the intermittent wresting
of my inner strings was natural , a part of growing up, and when, from tender stem , 
there emerged feelings of confliction that whirled into a strange collage-puberty's 
design. But whether my ordeals then were unique, like the latticework of 
snowflakes, or as simple as a raindrop on my pane, each one, wing footed, 
eventually melted from my mind.

Later came the common plagues: marital discord, effects of growing old and other 
irritations, weeds I plucked and dandelion fluff I blew away. These I could abide.
But other winters passing now have brought trials which are as a thorny web.
In unexpected times of drought, from seemingly nowhere. . . they sprout. Star 
Thistles (over which I've no control) come time and time again to prick my soul. 
Unlike the fleeting flowers of frondescent youth (whose memory retains for me some 
beauty), these thistles of infliction are both ugly and unyielding. Surrounding me are 
melancholy notes, and though the melody is rallentando, I think this dirge may 
never have an end.


For Catie Lindsey's "Dark Prose" Contest


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A PART OF SOMETHING

God created hands for building things. Sometimes before you build something, you must first destroy something else.

Wildfires are never supposed to be put out. Their sole purpose is to burn the entire forest to the ground, transform living things to fertilizer, making room and preparing the soil for new growth.
It is almost paradoxical, 
that there must be death before birth

My hands have stared the grim reaper’s reflection inside the pool of my best friends blood. An old student I used to tutor told me that I am the best brother she could have asked for
She said she will always love me
This was after I burned every bridge that traversed the gaps between us
Stared at her from across her desk
Told her that she will never be my sister. That our bloodlines will never match.
Our gene pools are just strangers that made the same wrong turn.
I spent so much time trying to find my way back that I never realized I was home in being lost I found something comfortable, without expectations. I only corrected myself after she spoke,
because I heard something familiar in her voice.
She sounded like family.

I have the scarred and wrinkled hands of a senior citizen
I’m only 22 years old
I once got my palm read
This gypsy woman told me that my lifeline should have been cut short when I hit 17.
That was a year ago.
What do gypsies know anyway
I have defied the odds my entire life.
Been broke down and built back up too many times to count
My fingernails chewed raw to the cuticle out of anxiety
I enjoy the taste of my own pain
Sometimes I use my own hands to destroy myself just to see who my real friends are who will build me back up when I can’t do it alone

My hands have a desire to learn how to cook, but I’m not that great.
So when I am alone,
I tend to be hungry, not just for food though.
I starve for someone to talk to
It never satiates, because it’s not you.
I know what it tastes like to completely give myself to someone.
My biggest fear is being abandoned.
When I look into your eyes, I am not afraid.
I need to cook you up a feast of myself, then feed it to you every day for the rest of our lives
Please tell me what I really taste like,
Be honest.

Years after my grandfather passed away, my grandmother moved into my aunt’s house.
Since I was 5, every time I speak to her she asks me:
“Spenser, did you thank God for waking you up today?”
I think to myself, I never did tell my eyes to open themselves. It just happened.
So I don’t know how to respond to her correctly.
I tell her that I love her, that I am writing a lot.
She tells me that she puts her hands together for me every night
Prays that I will get the job I want
I guess some prayers do get answered.
Sometimes two hands in the right position, matched with a conversation with God,
Can change things.
I even accidentally call that place home sometimes.

My dream is that my hands evolve into wolves, become part of a pack and work together with other hands to make a difference
Some days they will be the alpha male.
Full of confidence, at the head of the pack
Other days I need someone to show me the right way to go
Because if I’ve learned anything
It’s that I am not always right
I can not always be in control of everything
The only thing I have ever really wanted is to know
That my hands were truly
A part of something.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mirror - Mirror On My wall

   This image of me, now so many years later
each year looking, I’ve found some imperfections
Mirror-mirror, why should I ask - my time won't last,
peering into you, gray now, not young only faultiness,

    Years passing, why my image in my mirror
   should have creaked by, each year looking
will my image fade in front of my Looking glass 
I did Love being strong, young, only gray I see

So now seeing time as if it stood still each time,
touching this image onto my glass of memories past
wrongs, rights, scars, life time stories untold all mine
My life has found it's way full circle to gray, at last

         Things I see now in my looking glass,
are all part past, present, future, why I’m handsome
 graceful, I see each year in me, as if with class
so I will leave my mark, "love"  too touch someone


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Brick Mason's Daughter

My dad is a brick mason and so were my 2 grandfathers so it’s easy to say I would 
know a thing or two about laying brick. It has surely come in handy a few times in 
my life and each time I’ve had to use that knowledge; I have become smarter, 
quicker, more experienced. With each job, the joints look more clean, the foundation 
more sturdy, are larger than the last, more effective, rising higher and higher. I have 
found that some jobs were unnecessary and the walls would need to be torn down. 
But as I get more under my belt, those walls are harder to tear down.  The last wall 
to come down started slowly, very tedious work, back-breaking, brow 
sweating….many man hours went into what eventually resulted in a massive wall to 
come crashing down… covering everything around it in a cloud of dust. It was a 
most victorious day and well worth the hard labor. The land was cleared of debris 
and life began to flourish where the wall once stood. But I’ve been out of work for a 
while, no need for any walls to be built….until now. I thought my mason days would 
be over and I could hang up my trowel….retire from this laborious job that has took 
such a toll on me over the years. But now a wall is needed and it is time to dust of 
the tools handed down to me from a father to his daughter….trowel, level, jointer, 
and brush. This project is my biggest yet and will require much attention to details 
to ensure that it will withstand just about any force of nature. That it will stand rigid, 
unbreakable, firm. I dread the hours that this will require, the aches and pains my 
body will endure for this enormous wall….a wall that no one will be able to rappel 
over, with numerous defensives, so high and well-built that it will intimidate anyone 
who dares to think twice about seeing what’s on the other side….a wall long 
enough to encase a small city so that those who rest inside will sleep peaceful at 
night with no worries of invasion. As I gather my tools together, I realize I had 
forgotten how heavy those mortar mix bags were. Funny…you usually never forget 
that or the effort that goes into mixing mortar. But I had forgotten. I start going 
over the blueprints, going over the knowledge that has been passed down to me 
and what I have acquired by experience….building my confidence up for that task 
that lays before me. It’s time..yes I believe I’m ready to start my footer. As my 
shovel strikes the dirt…I wonder if this is the beginning or the end of my career as a 
brick mason’s daughter. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Musing or Amuseing Part 1

	Now that time is getting shorter for the arrival of my new home it has put quite a 
stress on Shirlee and Fred.  They have had to do rearranging out at their place in order to 
accommodate my permanent cabin, besides working their full time jobs.
	Friday Shirlee was off and there were some fittings on the skelgas tank that had 
to be replaced before it could be put to use. (Now my days on the Nebraska and South 
Dakota plains I seem to remember our source of heat was called skelgas even though it was 
actually propane. Well that was a day ago I think) We also had errands pertaining to the 
mobile home so I went out and picked her up and we went from there. Actually she has just 
started working 4 days a week, ten hours a hours a day with Friday's off so we usually have 
this day together anyway.
	I started the day with a light breakfast (so we could eat in town) and loaded the 
things I needed to take along and pulled out of the driveway.  As I reached the end of our 
street and was gazing into the sun waiting for the cross traffic to pass I was startled by a 
sight in the distance. Probably a quarter mile ahead of me was a lake and as a large truck 
passed by on the interstate I was shocked to see... The Loch Ness Monster slowly working his 
way horizontal with the lake shore. Totally stunned I was then confused as to which road I 
should take out to Shirlee's. Finally I decided I would take the interstate.  As I passed under 
the interstate to reach my turn off I breathed a sigh of relief as the monster turned out to be 
a tractor with double appendages raised in the air and a cab with a rounded top.  I started 
laughing so hard I almost missed the turn off and had barely gained control as I reached the 
house. After greeting the dogs I proceeded to do a little chore as Shirlee went outside to do 
some of her chores.  When she returned I was all but  rolling on the floor reliving the earlier 
scene. I had shared it with the dog while she was out. After urging I finally told her of the 
incident. Eye brows raised she said, " I wondered for a minute as I didn't realize they were 
land animals too."  With that we departed for town.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Valantine

if you knew how much i loved you
if you knew how much i cared
only if you knew the melody
i hear each time i stare
if you knew the rainbows
that you make while your around
and conceived the glitter of diamonds
while i looked into your eye's
the glowing of perils and ivory
every time you smile
the picture of the glory
your hair apon a crown
to me a ficticios story
of how a princess loved a clown
something that you give me 
just by being around


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Memories Beyond the Door

Fly away from the memories
The ghosts of past trailed, never stop to chase
A journey finally brings me back
Back to the same door that I used to open

The breezes that I never forgotten
The odor of the hall that never change
I stood at the edge of my gate's sanity, the lips of an old trip
Be ready for the first gusts of my treasures' pasts

Vacant room is just like what I've thought
No passer, no shadow, only me in this big hollow
I reached the dusty quilt, cover up my self
This is my comfort zone, while I sit among a loss

Tears of yearn never melt, I assume it has dried
Maybe it goes to some other places
Where nobody or nothing could even see or realized 

Missing out this place, I think this is too much
The reflection of my bitter sweet memories reeled out
Playing the same scene at the same place where I stood
Where I can see those people who once ever filled this empty room

Those people who now fill the empty space of heaven's room


April 29, 2013
7th place
Memories Beyond The Door Free Poetry Contest
Sponsor	Constance La France


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Somewhere over the rainbow

I had heard this song by an obscure artist, with a twist as it played verses 
of 'Somewhere over the rainbow, with 'What a wonderful' world entwined. 
It's simply melody strummed on a ukalele mesmerized me as I listened on the radio 
in the car.
I remember saying to my wife, "I want this at my funeral." I was morbidly honest 
that way.
Several years later, I was watching an episode of E.R. in which our favorite 
character, Dr. Green discovers he has brain cancer, and a short time to live. He's 
basically given the advice we all wish to avoid. "You don't have long, retire, enjoy 
the time you have left."
 Dr Green, plans a vacation with his daughter, who's relationship has been strained 
since his divorce. For the next three or four episodes Dr. Green and his daughter 
spend his last days surfing in Hawaii. Mending the relationship slowly, to a degree 
of understanding only a father and daughter could know. He's still Dad, and she's a 
teen working on letting go of her resentments.
In the last episode of the story, he's not doing well. He keeps passing out and his 
strength is waning. He knows it's only a matter of days, possibly hours; but doesn't 
share this with his daughter, the scenary is of a bungalo on the beach, white sands 
surround the openness of the primitive bungalo, palm trees speckle the beach, and 
in the distance lies the royal blue waters of the Pacific Ocean.
A day of surfing is suddenly changed as he suggests that his daughter go ahead of 
him, he'll stay back and watch until his strength returns. So he sits in a hammock, 
and watches out in the water as she strolls off to surf, Background music grows to 
this song I'd so loved, by and artist named Israel "IZ" Kamakawiwo?ole and as the 
music is playing softly, the camera pans in on the face of Dr. Green for his death 
scene, and his last breath. The camera pulls back, from the back of his head, above 
the bungalo, above the beach as if we are Dr Green's soul departing this earth.
Yes, I cried like a little school girl as realized that my favorite character had just 
been erased from our show, with no chance to come back for a Cameo... What!? of 
course that's why I cried! OKAY! it was a tear jerker! and the saddest part, was the 
relationship with his daughter was still in repair . Moral of the story i guess-- You 
never know when its your time, so don't hold on to petty resentments, and love 
every minute of life.  

I later learned, Israel "IZ" Kamakawiwo?ole; had also died






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 | |

Coffee Time for Two

The cups are on the table 
As the coffee starts to brew
Two flowers in the middle
Now all I need is you 
.
You called me up this morning
Said you'd be stopping by
My heart started racing
I really don't know why
.
I guess I'm just excited
To share this time with you
I can think of nothing better 
Than gazing in your eyes of blue
.
It's been almost an hour now
Since you were on the way 
Wish that you would call me
So my mind won't start to stray
.
Our coffee time's so special
It's where our love began
So many words where spoken
As our future we did plan
.
Now it's been two hours
Still no knock upon my door 
I'm feeling a kind of emptiness
As my "second cup" I pour
.
I sit and watch the clock hands
As the hours pass me by 
Even the petals on the flowers 
Seem so sad they start to cry 
.
My cup is now half empty
Your cup is barren and it's cold 
I feel a familiar feeling
There's a coldness starting to unfold
.
We've tried so many times
Perhaps this time is our last
Maybe thinking of our future
Is just something in our past
 
Though the petals have all fallen
 I'll keep the table set for two
For our coffee time is "special"
It's when I fell in love with you


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Laughing at Us

Times are the best when baby sis and I get together; no special reason or holiday, 
just to have fun.  Miles separate us now along with eight years but when we’re
joined, it is hard to tear us apart.  I believe we think too much alike; both of us are
carefree and happy go lucky; we even look alike - poor thing.  I believe we 
acquired our slap-stick personality from mother, she always made us laugh.  I 
recall the time sis invited me to come to Tennessee and go visit the Lynchburg 
Barbecue Cook-off with her.  I had had a left knee replacement the year before 
and still had to get around in my wheeled walker with hand breaks and a let
down seat just in case I needed a chair and couldn’t locate one.  She pulled 
me all over the cook-out area backwards.  Someone from the news staff was 
doing a story on the cook-off and saw me reading a Lynchburg news paper while 
being pulled backwards and asked if they could take my picture.  Well, I found 
out that they already did and it was to appear in next week’s edition.  We had our 
fill of delicious barbecue, bought some homemade fried pies, bought a few 
souvenirs, and decided it was time to head back home since I had a long drive
back to my house.  Sis, bless her heart, told me to stay seated and she would 
pull me back to my car.  I helped her get me up the slope to the sidewalk and 
took my seat on the walker.  Being pulled, I relaxed a bit, we were half way there.  
Neither one of use noticed the huge separation in the walk until the walker and I
tumbled backwards, my feet and hands straight up in the air.  Sis couldn’t stop 
laughing, I couldn’t stop laughing, cars slowed almost to a standstill; traffic 
backed up.  A couple of people walking our way stopped to see if I was ok, I 
couldn’t stop laughing long enough to say I was.  Sis was too doubled over to
help me get up.  If we hadn’t stopped to relieve ourselves earlier, we would have
there.  Of all the great times I recall, that was the best.  Some people have to get
drunk or take dope; all I have to do is do something with my sister and we get high
together…

Copyright © 2011 By Caryl S. Muzzey


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 | |

Nineteen fable

 Nineteen fable 
Nineteen fable 
 
MUSICK NONnude Review 
 
 
CHarlaxFabels 
 
Grand Funk Railroad was a fave group of mine the best time eye ever had was in 
a house on a rug listening to this song of hard rock and rhinocerous thumps. 
Wait. FOGHAT was the best for sex but lucky mee was never a Catholic. The 
Horns blew for Chicago and there was lots of other groups to make this fable 
bleed there was the Creedence Clearwater Revival so cool so wonderful a thing. 
John Fogarty sure must have been a saint. Eye wish he had not got so mad and 
left the other members of his group. But Creedence Song became a new fave 
thing. 
Daddy had a band 
Played him a little guitar 
Traveled in a van 
Livin' that rock and roll 
Night after night 
People comin' up to the bandstand 
Say you can't go wrong 
If you play a little bit of that 
Creedence song 

It was late one night 
Cruisin' on down the interstate 
Stopped into a diner 
To get him some chili and fries 
Heard the waitress tell a guy 
Standin' over by the jukebox 
Hey you can't go wrong 
If you play a little bit of that 
Creedence song 

Well daddy took a shine 
To the lil' girl behind the counter 
She movin' her hips to the swamp beat 
Right on time 
Said could he play her somethin' 
Over there on the jukebox 
She said you can't wrong 
If you play a little bit of that 
Creedence song 

Daddy had a plan 
He asked that girl to marry 
With a brand new wife 
They're livin' on rock and roll 
Night after night 
She whispers oh so sweetly 
Hey you can't go wrong 
If you play a little bit of that 
Creedence song 




Details | Prose Poetry | |

Familiarity

What is it to me
that I cannot place you
in the picture painted by the years
the life has already spent?
Do you merely lurk,
and leave at a much later time?
Or, 
maybe
you are staying
because 
    you 
        are 
           meant
                to 
                   stay.

Then,
stay.
If you may.
I pray.
While I find a place (for us)
in the picture of eternities,
the gods must be 
hiding, 
conspiring;
themselves amusing.


Ah, the grand scheme of things -
                            a forgetting.
A familiar spirit we feel -
                            a remembering.     


(Note) This piece was inspiredly written for the beautiful souls - even the 
strangers - I have met along the way and will still come upon in my lifetime. To 
each special one, you have stirred quite a familiar spirit within. A remembrance 
of forgotten past, I suppose. Thank you for letting me peak through your 
soul's window. The veil of forgetfulness has never been thin as now to me. You 
have so given me a gift I shall treasure in the moments I may tend to forget 
who I truly am - a being with a soul.



Details | Prose Poetry | |

In Death

[[Poem]] "Who is this speaking - what can I say for the bereaved - lost amid the shell of their bitterness and abhorrence?" ""Like moths with dark shadows in their eyes children running and playing in their absence with no reflection of time driven by their guilt and heavy hands of shame; who are they now the bereaving?" - "Because I know the cost uneven, of pride - the-cost-is-more and is always cutting, cutting-me-down - one that is always- cutting-them - you."" "Who will reject this speak for their plight rejoice with them, us; lest I am anyone the one but who is for everyone who is any one?" "Which friend from the expressions worn upon the falling leaves, I can tell now time a gift is much shorter than what I often believe." ""For me... all of us, I believe leaves they are the Purest Example of God's Love Patience and Mercy; shown to us - and as Seasons are always changing along with them; what He gave me, you - which is what the Goodness and Promise of Any True Opportunity is; is what I feel is one that is just as (H)onest and ((O))pen, just as (((W)))illing, needed; wanted for any one, "anyone... !"" ""So sown now in this time left friend I must tell you - I would wish to be anything if found worthy to be the one caught, cut, killed - working for The Greater Idea of Peace - and so as he came to the grand corner, he walks away tossing a leaf behind him-the last words from him; being - "Stop all wars" time being what it is; is too short!"" [[Author Notes:]] Poem based in part on the song sung by Roger Waters and Band called Perfect Sense (Parts I & II) off the live concert video album (In The Flesh) - found on www.youtube.com. Main idea for poem is based and formed from a prompt for a contest I entered this work in on www.allpoetry.com found under this name on said site called: "Hyde Parks Speaking Corner." The link for it is here: http://allpoetry.com/contest/2465135. Poem originally written for this contest mentioned in the year 2009. "Thank you for reading, it is a true honor to have been able to submit it here for this contest on this site. God bless and keep you, His Peace be with you, come tacked you down today tickle you till you pee, double wrap you in His Grace." "Boy I sure hope you let Him!"


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Main Matrix

So, if a matrix is a body substance, in which all cells are embedded?
Then can I not spiritually say that the body of Christ is also a matrix?
Well, is it safe to assume or safer to not assume the differences in such?

If I have a World Wide Web with many matrixes, there must be a main.
How does one achieve the main matrix without a conversion of all matrixes?
Each living breathing organism has a matrix, but what supplies this?
 
Seems how all bodies have cells embedded in a matrix,
Is it not safe to assume that the universe has a matrix?
If so, where is the main universal matrix?
There must be a connection of some sorts,
Nevertheless, what is it and where is it?
Moreover, why has this not been thought of?
 
If the body is the temple of the Lord,
Then He must have a main matrix.
Matrix is Latin for womb.
So in which womb is this matrix?
Only a female has a womb.
There must be one that is required by none.
 
Now let us get even more difficult here.
We have a World Wide Web with many matrixes.
What if the World Wide Web is an individual womb?
It obviously has good and evil in its growth.
Could there have been two that fused by one?
Could there have been a conversion of all matrixes.
Or is there only one main matrix being a female?
 
Let us get back to the body of Christ and His matrix.
Let us even go to your own bodies matrixes.
An enclosure within in which something originates or develops,
This is what lives and breathes inside of you every day, a matrix.
Do we not develop Christ within ourselves, and He our originator?
Is it not safe to assume that we are the body of Christ?
Moreover, that we are of a matrix that has a universal main matrix?
 
 
®Registered: Ann Rich   2006


Details | Prose Poetry | |

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 DOMINANT - PROSE

He reached the slope of lost dreams.Mountains and snow twisting like a veil 
around shadows heavy and insisting.He watched the clouds change form,
becoming the echo of his breath.Slope of lost words.Somewhere between heaven and 
earth,he stood behind the white quietness and whispered:''Close your eyes, 
unreachable sky!Everyone who dies,remembers.To the open sea of infinity let me 
fly!''And like that, without shoes, without redemption rolled on the snow. He reached 
the white cliff and came back. If he fell, he would reached the top.White convictions 
floated on the snow.Only if time was more than a heavy diversion!
Horses of freedom were travelling with him among snowflakes and naked trees of 
passion.Their steps were leaving traces like a phantom limb,stating all these passages 
which formed the seasons' conscience.The white river was floating with a constant row
like the weapon that has even another bullet inside.''Pull the trigger!Do it!'' His scream 
was the only blow.The journey of destiny was interrupted over the icy road.
So he made his own.Returning the time that he borrowed,he changed his Thursday and 
left for the unknown.Now he is looking from the top of a white world the glass doors of 
others, throwing stones to break them.He reached the abyss of purity, as an Edenic 
mortality on hell.He was the Dominant. Nothing left to judge, nothing to condemn.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The clock strikes twelve

The clock strikes twelve
and it is time for her to go now,
I hold her for another hour;
she tells me she really has to be going,
then I say, "My love, don't leave me."
I am afraid of the dark
and I need your love
I need you;
both you and I need each other.
"I really must be going," she says.
I hear it in her voice,
she doesn't want to go either,
as a blooming rose says to wintertime,

I hold her hand and I kiss her soft lips.
She is tense,
but she loves, and she loves good.
My dear, one more hour that is all I ask;
do that for me, if you truly love me.

      (Times ticks and tocks, as the old grandfather clock gongs-
-My love another hour please,
leave with me,
go with me,
to the garden of beauty and love with me-
Come now my love, another hour we spend together,
I cannot help myself, but hold you closer and closer to my heart,
one more hour,
let me crawl in your heart and warm your soul,
and watch a movie in your mind,
a sweet romantic movie- no popcorn or soda- for I wouldn't want to dirty your mind,
and we shall go together,
and love together simultaneously, to the ticking of the old grandfather clock.
Only an hour more my dear- my love an hour more is all I need.

.2.16.2014.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Bird in Flight

Sitting there late last night! 
I took everything in with my deepest breath about me.
I could quiver feeling the warmth sinking slowly in, 
I was covered over distances which I could now see.
I had left myself. 
I was gone again.
I was above and beyond the clouds,  
Soaring deeply with every one of my though,
Higher and higher I rose, 
Reaching loftiness’ I have never once felt. 
I was a bird in flight! 
Stunning with privilege I had brought.
Feeling myself from deep within!
Standing there that night, 
The radiance beamed all around me so I took this in.
And lo and behold, there I went again.
I could feel myself while locked deep with my thoughts.
I was absorbed inside by everything surrounding me.
I felt the depth that my eyes could never ever once see.
Loosing all truth of myself, every sensation my soul had caught.
Further and further I rose, reaching capacities I had never felt.
I’m a feather in the air, 
Gathering sensations inside of myself.
I lay there that night, mind, body, and soul with me.
I was calm with the breeze, 
Inside of myself,
Feeling myself!
And once again I was a bird in flight soaring so high and much too free.
I was locked sound with my deepest thoughts.
More and more I rose and impact for impact I felt.
Feathers of a bird in flight and one of me I have surely got.
Ever since that night, many, many things have come to me.
One by one, gathered by the sensations carried all over me.
Touching inside of myself, again, again, and again!
Higher and higher I climb to reach the very tipsy top.
Gathering it all, I am more of me when more of me can be felt.
I am the breeze in the air touching the many feathers these birds have brought.
Many feathers just from sitting here, but each the soar of the wind has surely caught.
I’m a bird in flight gathering all that is real or not and all that is captured in of my-self.
I am surely the feather that fell from the very top, 
Because I am now what then I surely was not!
I am simply that feather in the air falling loose and free inside of myself.

®Registered: 1997 Ann Rich


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Circle

My father painted
western landscapes and bluebonnets
in a manner that can be described as “primitive.” 
He painted with his heart to stay sane 
in the never-sane world 
of the mens’ tubercular sanitarium.
From what little I actually know of him
he was a man of conscience 
and strength 
and love for his family.
He may have been other things too, 
but I can’t possibly know for certain 
except from the stories I’ve been told.
In these stories he was almost a saint.

When I was twelve he was sent home to die,
although no one told me. 
I remember him lying in bed in our front room. 
I touched his puffy leg, leaving a white dimple.
We laughed. 
He said we would make plans for time together,
just the family,
when he was better. 

One anonymous night 
I stayed with my grandmother 
for no reason I could figure out, 
although I really didn’t give it much thought. 
In the darkest part of that night 
my mother woke me 
to tell me he was dead. 
I don’t remember my reaction,
but I don’t think I cried. 
Men didn’t do that, you see. 
I do remember eating cake after his funeral 
at what I recently heard called 
a “funeral party.” 

I have a way of forgetting painful times.
For a long time after his death
my memory is a blank. 

Now, I am a painter. 
I don’t paint his landscapes or bluebonnets, 
but, like my father, 
it brings a breath of sanity to my world, 
completing the long-delayed circle of his life.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

FRIEND IN YOU

(Tatyana Kasima)

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

© 2011


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Going Through Non-Emotions

I listened as Ms. Azalea Lee spoke to me 
This is what she had to say…
I sat with the door opened catching the noon day breeze
As a package was delivered by the postman 
That stood there requesting my signature.
I hope its something good the postman said with a grin
Oh he may have been good to others, I said much to my chagrin
This package I had no desire to receive
Today or any day but somehow I knew it was the remains of him
This was supposed to be a joyous day
Expecting a newborn kinsman this eve and it being
The day of my daughter's birth -- I must state
How ironic this day has come in to play
As I received his backward ashes today
I never wanted to hold him in my arms again
Never thought I'd behold his form this way
My once tormentor, feigned lover, never true friend -- hey
No one could say I did not try
Held out the olive branch time after time…
He would just keep trying to burn that branch and my arm 
right along with it.   Even had my mama fooled 
By his falsified charms so bad that it seemed 
She did not care that it was I -- which he continually tried to harm...
Darn, that certainly should come to me as no surprise
As she often did much the same too me as a child
She, picking and pinching with her trying words 
To get a grief stricken tear from this numbed heart of mine
How absurd! Then Ms. Azalea Lee revealed some things to me that
I dare not write for indeed they were enough to horrify...
During that time, I whispered not a peep, for I thought to my self
How could she ever sleep, with all of those emotions balled up inside... 
How strange it was that after the age of 15 she had not truly cried… 
At least until the day her father died and then she went numb again… 
feeling nothing yet still managed to smile
My, how I wished I could share with her, this joy of mine….
How is it that she takes all in stride?
Without a drop of hate inside…  As I bid her goodbye, 
The answer came, she is mine and 
She possesses a strong will to survive.  
I now look back through time at Ms. Azalea Lee
Keeping her stories as they sure had an effect on me…


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My,Grandmothers,doll,collection

Ever since I can remember we visit my grandmother´s house every Sunday.  In the dinning room were we usually spend the while there, she has always had this big glass carved showcase lying against the wall. This big showcase of hers has all types of dolls you can imagine. Is a collection a hobby of her that since I can remember it grows bigger every time. From Matryoshka dolls until Mariachi dolls we can see up there in her collection. Dolls from many places around de world: France, Russia, China and Germany are some examples. My father tells me she collects this dolls since he was a kid, from house to house they have lived on she has taken this big showcase of hers. My grandmother is a collector, and yes she has probably more than 20 different nationality dolls, but this doesn’t mean she has been all around the world. People that know her and care for her always bring her a doll as present when they come back from a vacation. Sometimes I ask her things about the dolls, and every single time no matter her age she always remember the dolls that are the most special to her. Some are presents from other people, and others were bought by herself, but from this special dolls she can give all the exact information. Off course the majority of the dolls she doesn’t even remember from which place they come from or who gave them to her, but I see the smile on her face every time we talk about this showcase, and I feel happy myself only by thinking how an object that she has save for so many years have a great value to her. But most of all I feel happy that one of this special dolls is a present from me and every once in a while when she remembers she thanks me for this doll and tells me that is one of her favorites. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fooling us All

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

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

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

these elite thugs
conducting violence above the law
fooling us all


Details | Prose Poetry | |

What We Shared

Take my hand and help me climb, wedge my tumble,
Let me lean on thee, halt my heart throb, humble
Me with thy warmth. Once there was a guy who
Knew me and identified  with me, my heart
Would skip at the sight of him. "I love you"
He had said to me. His lovely smile
Thought me gentleness. His caress made my 
Heart dream of an eternal bond. And it
came to pass that he found me for a bride
But he passed away with the enraged wind  
Of life and my heart had since endured this 
Coup. None have been like my John, no; Their brain 
Registers no truth. Love is not money,
No, nor is it honey. Love is all so
Deeper than beauty or form. Oh! It's what 
My John and I shared. Beauty shall always
Urge body attraction, attitude shall
Birth true interest and commitment shall 
Birth care. Money maintains love, not money
Brings love, my teacher had once said to me
Rich or Poor, man has a right to be loved.
They say everything  that goes around
Must come around. Let the coin turn it's back
And bring me love with treasured moments or 
Let tide and time reverse, that I might meet
My John, and enjoy what time had denied us.



It is completely fiction.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

First Kiss

The instant our eyes met we knew the kiss was imminent. We smile playfully all the 
while in pursuit of this aforementioned kiss. Each time we part ways we audition 
attempts at the kiss in know of its accelerated position. The instance was right, I 
knew it would be this night that I without trepidation, boundary or fear. Free from 
hesitation and wonder of return, tonight will be the night of concern. At suns set I 
stretch forward my arm, a coward no more. We adore the charm of each other and 
are ready to explore, risking harm without worry all kiss" long and longed have I for 
the moment on approach. I chose you as my love to share after approving smile this 
incredible moment of kiss. This here is the moment of truth, I can hear your heart 
beat in your ear, the same ear I now peer through into your mind and find it's true 
that all fear has disappeared. My fingers brush through a handful of your fair hair, 
together we share one final breath of single air. Our lips are now erect and on direct 
intent of meeting, millimetres remain. The time for our minds to change has past, at 
last the moment is here. Your eye sheds the tear of fears farewell, I taste the swell 
flavour of "please kiss me" and I do because I have wanted to kiss you so badly too.


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 | |

There Ain't Nothin' Better Then A Cowboy Lover

He was her part time lover
even though he was her only one
A man you could love
But she’d never let him know…
she had a full time heart            
Although her strings
had some wear and tear
throughout her years.

She wasn’t going to let him put her heart in his pocket.

No, she wasn’t about
to give her heart away
She’d play it cool.
Never let him see her fears
Pretend she was tough
Never cry or show any tears

He was a man,
raised right by his mother
He’d lay a rose upon her pillow
He was a man like no other
There ain’t nothin’ better
then a cowboy lover

His name was Jesse from Montana
He had skin the color of lightly roasted coffee 
from being out in the sun so much
His smile, a bit crooked
made him look a bit mischievous,
in a teasing sort of manner
It could knock your socks off 
if you gazed too long

She met him at a little café’ in Big Sky
leaning against the counter
like a long, tall drink of cool water
Boots, hat and all the makins'
of a real cowboy   

She had slayed the paper dragons of her past
Put them all behind her
She was bold and brave; 
asked for his number
which he willingly gave
with a smile, a little bit crooked,
a bit mischievous
in a teasing sort of manner

They’d cuddle in their blanket
under the stars and the moonlite
listening to Hank Williams songs
drinking coffee around their campfire
telling stories from their pasts;
laughing, snuggling
Before she’d go to sleep at night, 
he’d kiss her cheek 
and hold her close in his arms 
                     
One night as she lay in his arms,
he stroked her cheek 
with his tender touch, 
kissed her lips and held her tight

He said, “What would you do if I asked
"Ask what”, she said?
"Little lady, do you know I love you,
would you kindly be my wife”? 

When he said that to her that 
wonderful nite under the stars
she realized...

She wanted him, to put her heart in his pocket

That was the night 
she gave her heart away

  She wasn’t playin’ it cool
  She let him see her fears
  She wasn’t really all that tough
  Then, she cried and showed him her tears

He was a real man,
raised right by his mother
He laid a rose upon her pillow
He really was a man like no other
Nope, there sure ain’t nothin’ better
then a cowboy lover
                                                    *~The Sweet End~* 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Afternoon

For her.

There's a magical place 
I like to call my afternoon.
Or maybe before evening
Would be just as good a name.

Hours away from darkness
Others call night.
I sit in the grass of my garden
Looking at spider webs flutter
Flat on my back.

Just in time to watch clouds dance by
Going somewhere high in the sky...
With me rooted, transfixed
To my spot for the show.

Leaves falling in graceful circles
Down on my head...
Caught by a breeze
Unseen..nice and cool
Like a pool...or a pond
Where my water lilies grow.

I dare not close my eyes
For even a second to blink
Not wanting to miss
Even a shadow of lights movement
In my magical garden.

I dream I can fly
Up the hill to our meadow
Into your sweet thoughts and warm eyes
This time just before evening...
In loves warm glow
For her.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Borrow Time

A question, a sentence all made since, My apologies indeed,1 to the 2,3…. Can you make time a map, A man a watch, watching it as a clock slide by, Dear fox. Go seek out a dinner for me perhaps a dinner for three, Cause what I could see was a family for me. Is there no good or bad or have you seen no evil to know what it is sad, Settling for less if not the reason why this pen flows, At five o’clock in the morning just after I take a ride down to the coast, I began to catch a feast is it time for lunch with a breeze? , Please just read. But I took the road not taken, And like Robert Frost it was a demon I seen; in me. A lyrical poem with many different poets all in one, a rust diamond if this still is not gem, site the beach, for more discrete. I remember a famous rapper say don’t read too deep into my rhyms, I said to myself I know the feeling too well to be speechless to dine in and be sleepless, This is not the white house but the light is on in this house, all the time. This is the saddest thing to try to reason as I am floating in and out of consciousness , In a lumpy bed watching the clock, skip a beat at five o’clock in the morning, What a treat, And surgery of all things staying awake listening to everescence, Thinking to myself how this would sound better if it was duet with some R&B. I went across the street seen the Raven but still believe in heaven, And as I was waiting patiently a Rose grow from concrete, How long would it grow until the end of the road I think still, and blink. If you knew would you still search if you knew? Could you paint a picture of the life after death only if you knew. Can you get the greeting, and I mean all is well tell this to the Senate, This meaning is too far-fetched to reason. Like my favorite Poet John Milton my favorite poet without any QUSTION, That a book tells two side to a tale, why not witness? By just listening, Question! ! ! The life of a SENTENCE! ! ! It still makes sense somehow more or less than other. I blinked again knowing the content of his meaning, And arose from sleep just as a whisper in the night, And repeated repented as needed the questions, Indeed to answer all too well, Being five o’clock in the morning it was a question, A sentence it all makes sense, One to the two, three…… I sleep with a pen but I sleep with sword! ! ! ! ...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Reflection on Seasons in the Supposition of Snow.

I stared at walls and contemplated colors~

I believe it was after midnight~

he spoke of nothing as I imagined the importance behind us, as I imagined the breeze that
was affected by his voice, as I realized nothing intrigued me...

and here we were.

His arms spoke of goosebumps, little shivers up my spine, and September had this way about
her that I wished to somehow capture in mason jars that would decorate the rooms we may
sit in come snow, I knew the reflection of fire across skin and I kissed possibilities as
I watched our seasons...

change.


There's no stopping distance despite the desire to break clocks, minutes and miles are
irreversible, I've found, so I counted them, the hours, and made sure he was touchable and
only an arms length away...


My August arms brushed across his chest, he had the ability to calm though summer still
danced through his heart, my fingertips traced over the forgotten eyelashes that
desperately tried to escape sight and I breathed, sending wishes to the walls that
surrounded us, to the edges that had yet to decide their color, that touched nothing...

yet captivated my attention.


There were shadows that covered us~

I think they appeared right beyond midnight~

but I knew we were swallowing September,  I supposed we'd create minutes that would make
us smile come snow and we'd kiss in the reflection of fire...

escaping distance

with the whispers that affected skin.




Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Reflection of Sunsets that Ignored the Destination of Us

It seemed to me, when the sun set and his eyes mirrored clouds with raindrops that had yet
to fall, it seemed to me...

we'd been ignoring the weeks it took to get this far.


I'd spoken often, on Wednesdays, when I sat alone and conversation happened to be the only
thing that kept my hair from tearing herself out, of ice cream Sundays and possibilities
of his hand touching the little milky white part of my right thigh in a brushing that made
me shudder....

made me realize...

how much I needed him.


It was the tiny moments I sketched and photographed that held me, his eyes when he loved
me, and the sweat that settled herself on the nape of my neck when he kissed me,
tightening curls and muscles that hid themselves from the hours I'd pretended to be
nothing....

but a woman.


I glanced to my left as I awaited his voice, as I searched somewhere for the echo of
nights past and the graze of sleeping when his legs brushed up against the outside of my
ankles, I waited as I stared at the walls that appeared behind me when he found nothing
else to do but smile, and I had blushed, schoolgirl red with the imagination that I was
still there for hearts beat faster in those days...

in the days that lived inside the weeks...

we may have ignored...

as we walked farther, he and I, towards places I couldn't see and destinations I had never
heard of, but...

you see...

his fingers, his hand...


brushed up against my thigh, as I shuddered and needed him...

as he kissed me

and my eyes mirrored sunsets and storm clouds that held raindrops that had yet

to

fall.








Details | Prose Poetry | |

An early song-2

I once joined the procession of colors and lost my heart
Till a wave colors distilled through night knocked me down dead.
Besides the mountain,  the midnight festival of colors is on.
Lying in my arms you imagine your blood is burning in my veins
 I am only listening to the chariot of the queen joining the revelry.

I knew you were being vain when you came to see me
I did know when your heart missed a beat. For the air was my friend.
And the tiny bird building its nest in the rafters of my roof
Did  not bring a straw as long as you talked. 

You never said bye.  For you wanted me to do that. But I had no time 
And kept riding on the wave. The storm is not away. What if I fall.
 Tomorrow I will be lying in these shores caressed to sleep by a smiling sun.

 I don’t have the time to forget you in the endless expanse of this blank night. 
Last night’s sun was but a spot hewn out of the tragedy of the heavens.
A tragedy that  survived the ages to live in my heart in fire and smoke.

You keep away while I create my pieces in these desert sands. When I proceed
 To give them the finishing touches, you shriek in despair. For you think
 I am going to spoil the lovely piece of some great master with my clumsy hands.
                                           -2-
Tomorrow is the illegal child of today abandoned in the dark.
I end up at night  and my child is born at night, having passed 
Through  the summer that seared my skin and heart.
The cup of sorrow is never full, so there is no overflowing.
Yesterday we witnessed the winter night breathing its last.
Winter was in lament for the little bird that went up but never returned.

I bear no gifts for you. I know not your names. I know not who you are
But I recognize you without mistake against this backdrop of misery.
I come here with my empty bag to gather the drops of your sobs
And consign them to the flame in my mind leaving your smiles behind.





For: Catie Lindsey's Free Verse contest



Details | Prose Poetry | |

What do you do with your DAY and NIGHT

I live the day to dream the night
As I dream the night to live the day
I work the day to rest the night
As I rest the night to work the day
I pay the day to gain the night
As I gain the night to pay the day
I give the day to earn the night
As I earn the night to give the day
Life is all about time
As time is all about day and night...

(c) 2011


Details | Prose Poetry | |

''kissing sally in the smoking-room''

listen, the world has changed plenty since you’ve last shown your face around here. nowadays, a name is the last thing we learn, if we ever do learn it. flirting is boring, death is a dinner topic, happiness is strange. pain is good. things taste backwards — but oh, do they feel sweet. love and crime no longer compete for the gold: guess what sweetheart, they’ve got it, and they’re sleeping together.

oh come on, don’t look at me like that.

you’ve always underestimated your own heart, you know. and mine, for that matter. you can get away with a lot of things with a heart now — i suppose that’s another thing that’s changed. remember how we used to be under its mercy? remember how we couldn’t cope with the traffic of our bodies until it finally sighed some soft, silly sentence?

how long have you been gone, anyway?

no, no, that’s not how it works. it isn’t really a question of whether i missed you or not. that word doesn’t mean anything anymore. it’s become quite the popular prop. i don’t have a word for what it’s been like while you were—

what? what do you mean i’ve changed? if there’s anyone who’s changed it’s you! i haven’t changed for the sake of entering this world: look, darling, we’re all thieves of space and time, and i’m just one of many trying to survive.

but…yes, i do suppose those days were nice. in their own way. when we were buried treasure. when closeness was something you had to earn first.

hey, you’re smiling. 

i’m not kidding — you really are. should i stop?

well, i can’t say i imagined you’d be back here again.

you want to know something, though? alright, i’ll tell you.

if there’s one thing i’m glad hasn’t changed at all, it’s how we wake up. it doesn’t matter what happened hours ago. forget about what your skin remembers. can you believe it, we still manage to wake up! after all this!

i think a lot of it has to do with how competitive, how scared everyone feels. because after that, even after that, there’s still that pleasant feeling of shared space. and then the silent sunrise. and then the beautiful morning.

i know.

i know, i know.

and yeah, you’re still smiling.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Grandpa's Air Port Shuttle

Maja, Noah and little Luke
all excited and looking so cute
with Mommy, Daddy and the rest of the clan
we grab the bags and pile into the van.

We leave the house just before dawn
Grandma stays back as we move on
on to the airport we’ve said our goodbyes
it’s just a vacation but I’ll miss these guys. 

kids and luggage pile out at the curb
“You’ll have to move your van sir!”is all I heard
but I was in the moment missing  them already
being grandpa I smile and  keep myself steady

I’m just not ready to part with them yet
I need more time before they board that jet
“Sir you’ll have to move your van now!”
But I want more time with my kids some how.

Still I smile and wave and pull away.
I’ll see them again a week from Sunday 
----We miss you guys---


Details | Prose Poetry | |

my love

You used to say distant is Just a number of miles,
The figures in number couldn't separate us,
And you said that time was to pass like a rocket
And once again we could be together,
My love !my love! how is you?

It pain me so much,
The memories of our love are tormenting me,
The promises you made are dead now
Never to be fulfilled
And never to be altered again
My love! My love! how is you?

You said you could not wait anymore,
What was there to hold to?
I had no choice but to let it go,
My heart did sunk,with noone to lean on,
I only comforted myself with our memories
My love! my love!hoe is you?

Its long time ever since ,
But I want to know that am ok
Not that I care,but how have you been?
My love! My love!how is you?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Reclaimation of Number 21

Fiction by Charles
Just prior to the end of the civil war, there were nearly 6000 men who were not 
accounted for but assumed to be alive.   Under truce, a secret meeting between Lee 
and Grant was held on no mans land, in the spring of 65.  A commission was 
established between the two men, made up of 6 lieutenants from each side.    
They were to determine if the awols were able and fit.  If they were flagrant in their 
responsibility, and if so, determine the best way to reclaim their dignity for them.  
Out of the 6000 they identified 3400.  Of these approximately 2500 were, in the 
opinion of the commission, acting with the good of their families foremost,  who 
were already in destitution and near starvation.  All charges were dropped leaving 
them free men.  
Of these, almost 600 were so taken aback by the fairness and generosity of the 
generals, they left their families, going back into their respective units and it is 
estimated that 400 died in battle.  Approximately 1000 were found to be lacking in 
integrity and the following sentence was carried out on them.  
    They could as a first choice face a firing squad.  As a second choice they could go 
back into battle with false id.  They would be held in chains until the appointed time, 
which was when the LTs in charge decided the fighting would be fierce enough that 
the prisoners could not logically survive.  At that time they would be delivered to the 
battle lines of the North or the South with no thought given to their original 
allegiance.  Regardless of the decision made, from the time they were asked to 
decide, they were no longer an identifiable person.  They were no longer white 
black or otherwise.  They gave up their rights as human beings.  The only thing they 
had left in this life was how they died and their relationship with their God.  That 
evening one of the prisoners managed to get a knife embedded in the hot cooking 
coals.  He was found stripped naked on the field of battle two weeks later.  Across 
his chest was a scar which read:  

They say I am number 21
My life on this earth done  
I have lost the right to live  
Nothing greater can I give  
Dedicated to Him above  
I pledge my life, my love.

This notation found after the war recorded in the diary of Lt. Jeofrey Cook, 3 btlln, 6
infantry, Confederate army.  US of A.  The diary heavily stained and smeared, I like
to think, by his tears.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Der erste Schnee/ La primera nieve/ First Snow

Der Wald ist ruhiger geworden,
auch in dem Tal ist Stille eingekehrt.
Die Bäume hüllen sich in Schweigen und warten auf das
erste, leise Weiß.
Vereinzelt ziehen Elstern ihre Kreise 
und ein paar Krähen rufen durch die Zweige, 
ihr nimmermüdes Krächzen in den Tag.
Auch über Feldern und den Wiesen, die immer noch
mit Grün gesegnet sind,
trägt sanfter Wind des Winters erste Boten.
Ganz fein, ganz rein
und zart wie Porzellan,
so gleiten erste Schneekristalle herab zum Boden,
wie von Zauberhand.
Dies ist die Zeit der Kinder,
die der weißen Pracht entgegeneilen, mit kleinen
Händen, ungeübt, die ersten Flocken fangen.
Der erste Schnee, das ist die Zeit der Lichter und der Kerzen,
das ist die Zeit der Hoffnung und der Liebe,
das ist die Zeit der Wärme in den Herzen.
			
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

El bosque está más tranquilo ahora
y sobre la valle calló tranquilidad.First Snow
Los árboles se envuelven en silencio,
 esperando el primero blanco.
Algunas urracas tiran circulos aislados y cornejas
 llaman a través de ramos su incansable grazuado al día
Sobre campos y praderas que todavía están benedictos con verdeza,
un viento suave lleva los primeros mensajeros del invierno.
Tan fino, tan claro y delicado como porcelana
planean los primeros copos de nieve hacia abajo de la tierra mágicamente.
Esto es la hora de los niños,
 que dan prisa para encuentrar la magnificiencia blanca
y para coger primeras copos con sus manitos, pequeñitos y inexpertos. 
La primera nieve, ésto es el tiempo de las luces y las velas,
el tiempo de la esperanza y amor,
el tiempo de calor en cada corazón.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
							
The forest is more silent now,
and also is the valley. 
Trees are wrapping in silence and wait for 
the first quiet white.
Sporadically magpies pull their circles 
and only a few crows cry through the branches, 
their never fading craws into the day.
And above fields and meadows, which still
are blessed with green,
a gentle wind carries  first messengers of winter.
Quite fine, quite pure
and delicate as porcelain,
first snowy crystals glide down to the ground,
as pulled by magic force.
This is the time for children,
rushing towards white splendour with tiny unskilled hands
to catch the falling flakes.
First snow, this is the time of  lights and candles,
this is the time of hope and love,
this is the time of  the warmth in every heart.


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 | |

FRIEND ON THE FLIGHT

 (Dedicated to Dana Rugina)


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

(c) 2011


Details | Prose Poetry | |

LOVE FOUND

What to do with love re-found?
Love that crept into
A heart suddenly sprung open
By a boy
In a world where the call to prayer,
Floats in the grey dawn.
A boy yes, but a man boy.
What a wondrous time, 
Before time flicked the page
And I saw the words ‘The End’.
Still I held the page open, 
Until the words blurred into infinity.
Time will tell an unlocked heart, to forget.
But even as times passes,
I say ‘Not yet, not yet.’

Not yet time, to un-see myself,
With the eyes of yesteryear. 
To feel again the years of time,
Nudging at my side.
Not time to return to old things.
This was not a lover’s love.
Nor could ever be.
No lover’s caresses
Amidst rumpled sheets, tumbling floor-wards,
As first light, breaks the night.
But still this love glows so bright.
No, it is not time to forget.
Not yet, not yet.


JM 2012



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Heroshima

Heroshima
Can ewe balance out those two final hits against the lives saved those that would have 
continued WAR on Asian Soil those days of hell of hurting men caught by bullits and the 
bayonets? Can just two bombs blasting death be counted as salvation won for all those 
young boys girls old men women who died instantly in two Atomic Blasts over those two 
cities of Japan. Nagasaki Heroshima eye have seen the END of time the BOOKS of GOD are 
open when the Dead Arrive. Arise all sleepers in those Graves can GOD usher in those 
SOULS into new places now to stay is there a place for JAPAN in Jesus Heaven? For those of 
us who sinned and suffered radiation burns lost our skins and mortal coils gone some died 
just screaming out in pain all normal living gone perhaps no time to say your HOLY NAMME 
of Jesus. Can they live there inside your heaven is it still possible that you forgive them for 
once upon the time it came to me today that a Just and Perfect GOD adjudges perfectly 
those in suffering words can not describe no time to utter words of salve; but deeds looked 
at made right by YOU salvation won given now to all. Eventide has come today to those 
whom tomb decay whom die threw no fault of there own. Just hit twice dumped down on 
Killed with anguish very slow. A special place in heaven for all those special people of Japan. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Clockwork Car

Cleaning out the attic I found an old clockwork car sitting in my toy box
It was old and rusty the wheels still went round and it had plenty of knocks,
There was a small hole in the side that was rusted around its green tin sides,
A little square for a key and had two seats to take my toy soldiers for rides,
So that was it, I was hooked searching high and low looking for the right key,
But then I saw it hiding under an old chair it was dark and it was hard to see,
Now the excitement kicked in happily and I fitted the metal key into the slot,
And wound it up round and round it went it was a bit stiff my thumb hurt a lot,
It finally stopped winding it was ready so then I put the car down on the floor,
But it just stayed where it was, not rushing off like a bullet, not like before,
So I got thin winder and forced it to give another half turn and gave it a bash,
The useless car still did not move it just sat where it was and it did not dash,
Desperate measures were needed, decisions there was only one thing I could do,
I would have to take the car apart, carefully and fiddle about with the screw,
So I levered the the side and scratched some paint with my trusted Swiss blade,
The rotten old bottom bottom pinged off and flew to a corner it was poorly made,
I finally got to the main spring it was a bit rusted and it had been over wound,
So losing my temper the car got shouted at and I bashed the car upon the ground.
Something gave it rattled so I shook it and made all the little windows fall out,
Again deeper in frustration I tapped it with a hammer then I gave it a real clout,
To my surprise the hammer blow worked but a little red man flew across the floor,
With just a torch I searched the attic but he was lost and I will see him no more,
There was still no movement from the clockworks so this time it was a softer tap,
Then pain shot through my foot with only socks on I just stood on the poor chap,
It came to that time when it was do or die so I gave the car a great hard whack,
I had hit it too hard and the top caved in now the bloody thing will not go back,
After my assault on the tin racing car there is just a pile of tin on the floor,
Grabbing the bits throwing them in the box now bored I will play with it no more.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Richard Prichard

Richard Prichard
Once was wretched
But now owns a golden land
Where diamonds and pearls rock his feet
Like giant balls of sand
He remembered the time he was poor
And how people treated him so
How he waved to the miller’s daughter
Each day
But she won’t say hello
He remember the time
He had no food to eat
Except a morsel of porridge
That fell to his feet!
From the cook’s table 
Each time they meet
To engage Richard to brush his teeth
Richard Prichard
Once was wretched
But now he is a rich man
He remember the things his mother use to say
That you will eat from the toils of your hand
And if it fails
Get an education
And never underestimate 
The powers of your mind
As time and chance
Is all it takes for you? 
To leave all that behind

Richard Prichard
Once was wretched
Was charged with stealing a pie
And the penalty under the law says that Richard must die
But the maid who made the allegation had told a lie
She couldn’t recognize the thief when he ran by
Richard Prichard was taken to Cornwall
Before the magistrate at Canterbury Street
The magistrate told Richard to stand up
And to be on his feet
He called Richard a thief and wretch in open court
He commanded the jailer to take him back to prison
On the spot
The magistrate took a bribe 
And let Anthony go
After he had sold a bag of sand for salt
But pretended he didn’t know
$50,000 he took 
Set a guilty man free without looking at his book


Details | Prose Poetry | |

FAR AWAY

So close we are,only the clouds are in between
Together we are bond Just like joined twins
Ur guidance & counsel  make my paths
Only me & you understand this language
But far beyond my reach you are,
Only time will join us again


Sometime I wish it could be a journey,
I could travel all the way to see your face.
To hear ur words of wisdom once more
& share the laughter we had
But far away you are,
And only time wiil join us

Passing one bridge of  breath to another,
Is achievement,
But,what bridge did you pass?
You left me all alone
Only holding to the live we had,
Hoping & wishing  dat death had not visited
Far away you are,
And only time will join us.


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 | |

SOMETHING IN A VOID


For we perceive beyond the rainbow,
Beyond the shadow of gravity holding ISS.
Caught not in a void
But like bees wading in their own honey,
Pollinating space with thoughts …

Our tent did blow from on high
Exposing this nakedness.
They, uncomprehending,
A soul did incarcerate; 
Feeding barest morsels shared with rats;
Though famished eyed her fleeting skirt.
So did she infiltrate his racked dreams?
Spittle healing cuts; kisses soothing bruises,
Milk nourishing hunger … 
Tears washing away grimy sorrow.

Such comfort in the bounds of direst misery …


Details | Prose Poetry | |

lead my hand o' dear life

lead my hand o' dear life

lead my hand
on this land
o' dear life, 
until the end

o' dear thought
of comfort

seed my life
feed me not in strife
bleed me joy from nine to five

lead me a journey of phases
a journey of ages
to face this

germinate in me a corn
of survival 
a history of possibilities
a record of living to afford
a source to live

for this life 
is a choreographer of life
a propeller of existence
an economy of spiritual commodities

a tear drop of opportunities
yet not so many does see its commonalities
an event of anomalies and regularities

lead me a way o' dear life
carry me a sledge on a journey of life 
a terrain of survival and life

a gemstone for many
a pentagon of any
a model of penny

an artwork of joy

a string of life on a journey
a script of many
a stanza of any

opn08022012/0106

from: 'journey of life' and 'on a journey', 
february 2012 

>> ntema's unique poetry (nup) 
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lead-my-hand-o-dear-life/


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Why

We look up and cry, "Why me?"
Sometimes we get an answer
and sometimes we get silence,
but always... we are heard.
Our time is not His time,
our needs are His classroom,
our lives are His to mold;
our job is to live trusting that
He is there... always there 
answering us in His time and His way.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Can't Let U Go

"You brought me into this world. You guided me the best you knew how to. You watched me 
grow before your very eyes and yet you still can't seem to let me go. Now the tables have 
turned, for I've watched you live your life with out me there. Watching you live your life 
alone and free. Now its my turn to lend you my hand. As I guide you on your way and watch 
you leave this world when the time comes even though I still can't let you go." 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Cobwebs that Smiled and Tick Tocked My Teeth.

I wondered about midnight, with the

click-click

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


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

bit me...

leaving bruises that resembled....

teeth.


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


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

were to fall in.


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

crazy

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


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

I wondered if they smiled

if their tongues clicked

if they felt

like

me.






Details | Prose Poetry | |

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 | |

Will I Still Make You Swoon

WILL I STILL MAKE YOU SWOON 


We walked hand in hand,
On a crisp autumn eve.
...Both gazing up
At the pretty colored leaves.
.
Though we had only met
Just a short time ago.
I was struck by an arrow
shot from Cupids bow.
.
I was not looking
For a long time love affair.
Had my turn at failure.
Felt again I would not dare.
.
Seems that the same words
Came rolling off your tongue.
Said you were hurt before
When you were very young.
.
Said you were leery
Of anyone you meet.
Then you lifted up my spirits
When you said "I'm kinda neat"
.
Asked if you would like
To have a warm cup of tea?
When you said yes,
Surprised the heck out of me.
.
You had the green tea,
And I ordered black.
The things one remembers
As your mind wanders back.
.
Well we've been together
Now so many years .
Had so much happiness
Yes, and even shed some tears.
.
But I still can see
That twinkle in your eye.
And I still get excited
When I hear your sigh.
.
So how about a walk?
For it’s a crisp afternoon.
When I whisper that I love you.
Will I still make you swoon?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Shutterbugs

Back in the day when the camera was new
people were thrilled with what they could do

To take a moment in time and save it forever
A completely marvelous thing to do –however

What moment in time should one chose to save
how many moments in time can one truly crave

some would save every moment if they could
if it didn’t cost so much or take all day they would

can’t save them all you can only save some
now the question of course is save which one

should it be- tell the truth 
this one? the girl in big yellow hat.
or this one? with the fat crazy cat.

under compulsion you just never know 
no big deal though it’s all just for show


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Longest Day of Waiting

Life on earth is like a large platform where people show the highness or lowness of spirits of their lives. A queue in time bargaining for the much awaited satisfaction in life.  Just like in litigation, we all undergone proceedings in order to determine our unalienable rights --from conception to birth--judgment has been made whether to preserve or to abandon a life. Is it the longest day of waiting to be born on this earth? Not until we begin to crawl and cry weakly; run and stumble many times; stutter while trying to express the feelings, and get the needed fostering from parents that we realize all these as part of the stages of life. Is it the longest day of molding life inside the house? Not until we are brought up learning under the doctrine of the school to get further knowledge that we see a brighter future.  We struggled hard to academic discussion--from shapes, numbers, reading and into writing, we learned and been guided coherently. Is it the longest day of waiting for commendation? Not until we stepped out from our alma mater and into the challenging workforce that we feel the test of life.  We faced many setbacks and blows but determination made us to choose to get on it until we gradually climb into the targeted rank. Is it the longest day of the tiring effort to make a living? Not until we retired from work and have seen the fruits of our effort that we begin to feel good enough. As growing old is inevitable, it is about changes in yourself and life. Eyesight begins to dim and hearing fails, agility has turned into weakness, and health deteriorated until you sigh, “It is time to lay all worries to rest and maneuver myself into an open fluorescent green field.” 

For all we know, it is still not the end of waiting until we see our next generation coming into being and deserving to be treated as such.


Noel N. Villarosa
12 February 2013


Details | Prose Poetry | |

TIME

Tick tack  on the wall,
Knocking all the wall,
Scaring us all,
Muscling the muscles,
Muscling the morsels in us,
Quickening the finest deep,
The hidden gold of gold,
A dignity of labour,
How loyal and diligent you are,
Precious and precarious,
Dangerous and conspicuous.
TIME !!TIME!!TICK TACK!

Running without waiting for anybody,
How impatient could man be,
In your sound you keep man,
In haste at everydawn,
Thou hath in the haste of full dawn,
Desperately desperate,
Anxiously anxious,
Wisely wise are we and you
Preciously precious,
Nothing can be done without you that's obivously obvious.
TIME !!TIME!!TICK TACK!


We chose to choose you,
Working to work with you,
Falling to fall with you,
No time no food,
No time no suite,
No time no cheat,
No time no shift,
No time no me,
there is set time for everything,
Mama use to say,
Patience is virtue of time,
that's the way whichever way.
TIME !!TIME!!TICK TACK!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Guts To Forgive

Someone someday came to me
That someone somedy charged a fee;
That fee was realyy irreplacable	
And the loss was really intolerable.

That day i decided something very smart
Whatever it is ,but never melt your heart;
just let everything go far apart
and beleive no dart can break your heart.

Oh! 'that' someone someday came again to me
This time wont pay you any of the fee;
Now don't be sorry,it means nothing to me
Stop being burdened ;you better feel free.

Was that the right decision to take?
Was it correct not forgiving someone for a mistake?;
No; was the answer for being so rude
But everyting can't change according to your mood.

One day yself made a major mistake
Was expecting everyone to forgive and wake;
Now for myself I can't be so fake
when I myself never forgave any mistake.

How can we be so selfish sometimes
Its funny why we never hate ourselves even for the crimes;
Why then we feel so hurt if its someone other
Why our heart is not like a mother.

This time 'I' met that someone someday
Hugged him and forgave that someone that day;
We departed away with satisfied smiles
Alas! I walked with free feel for miles.

From that day I learned something really new;
One needs the guts to forgive even a few.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

March Winds

Spring is on the distant horizon, another month has gone, now just a memory
Seasons flow seamlessly, path's of time seem faster, now in my golden years
The month of March is vigorous and piping, the month of new life in nature,
The coldness of our winter very gently fades, birds sing high in the trees,
But beware of gales as they rush through our woods, over meadows and glades.

The wild wrath of winter eases, March winds are fast, chasing the cold away,
Branches bend and groan, dead wood falls, ruining thatches and old buildings,
The wind bites but wild flowers spring from black soil in meadows and glades,
Measure the difference of the solemn fitfulness's of autumn, and March winds
As People gingerly look out on mild days time to begin work in their gardens.

The last days of February sees the frost less severe, the slushy snow melting,
All in keeping with ancient character the month is wet from thaw and dampness,
A time for floods as snows melt, rain and sleet pours, this is our wet season,
There is movement in the woods, leas and the forests nature starts to wake up,
Now as sap is stirring in trees, buds begin to show green on bushes and boughs.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Direction of Sheets that Kissed His Skin.

I found the break in belief upon the study of honesty...

I knew the subject of smiles and that the left sided curl of a lip decided the direction
of my kiss...

He was...

untouchable, yet I adored the feel of him, and I sat behind mirrors for months pretending
to be Alice as my skirts raced dangerously close to tomorrow, the decoration of my thighs
touching...

ground.


“This is perfection, you know,” I whispered as the sun fell, and the blankets that covered
him danced silently over his skin as I watched night fall across the shadows of his face,
and I touched...

his smile...

with desperate lips as I tasted happiness and the delicious idea of me.


I curled up for a moment and thought, pondered, I decided I'd watch the direction of his
breath as my vision faded, he slipped his fingers through my hair and I split time in half
as my legs untangled, and we were...

everything...

uncountable, the months that forgot themselves, the nights I lost myself in his dreams,
and if that wasn't beautiful then reflections were liars and I slapped dishonesty straight
in the jaw...

before I told him how much I needed him...

before he watched the patterns of my breathing without understanding...

I exhaled for him..

without knowing I loved the way summer sheets touched his skin right before I held him...

right before I knew that forever is untouchable and existence is created with the smile

that settled on his lips

after we kissed.






Details | Prose Poetry | |

Imagine

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


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 | |

The Forever Trail

They roam miles over hillsides
stride aimlessly cross open plains
and grassy fields
unseen and silent to all cept' those
who see with more
then their eyes,
hear with more 
then their ears,
and believe with more
then their hearts and minds.
Twilight,a gray blue haze,settles in
quiet, no sound(s) heard
but those of time almost forgotten
souls lost, blanketed by death
foot-steps hushed by time
travel now in ghostly silence
their destiny, to travel the forever trail.
Physical lives long shed in defense
of the very ground they are now one with
their cries must be heard! always honored
never to be forgotten
lest their lives were sacrificed for naught.

Melody A. Coster


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 | |

Never Waste our Time Trying to Impress Others

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


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 | |

A MESSAGE OF LOVE FROM WHITNEY

Every time you listen to my songs
I will be sending you a great big kiss
And though I moved beyond your sight
Know all of you I will surely miss

Always remember the joy and laughter
That always found a home within my face
Always think about all the wonderful times
I took your mind and heart to another place

Please try never to shed unhappy tears
Each day my love ones while I am away
For there will be a time in the near future
When again in each others arms we'll stay

And tomorrow morning when you think of me
About the love you always saw in my eyes
Remember wherever you might be in your life
My spirit will never again leave your side

My family I miss all your hugs and kisses
Which I will always treasure, and I am sure
One day soon again we will laugh and sing
Together in heaven with our precious Lord.

A poem i was moved to write for Whitney, a beautiful
spirit, while listening to Stevie Wonder sing 'Love is in need
of love at here funeral!

Wendell A. Brown
Copyright  February 18, 2012,
All Rights Reserved.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Necklace

My mom and dad bought a necklace for me from
Scottland. It is sterling silver with a pendant and in the 
middle of it is my birthstone. A purple Amathyst stone.
I wear it all the time and never take it off, because I love it
so much and it is a gift from somewhere I have never been
to before. If I get to go there someday, I have no clue.
This necklace is my favorite one also because it is chosen 
for me, with love. I hope it never gets lost or broken, or I will
be very upset. As pretty as a sunshine on me and as bright as a 
star shining at nighttime out in the still beauty of the background.
I believe it means alot to me to keep me calm and to remember
My mom and dad, all of our good times together, as a family.
They are getting older in age , and sometime we need to
think about how much time we are spending with them.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hell is a Fine Line Between Forgiveness and Heaven

      “Although meaning well, the bottom line shows that a “Jersey Rules” Adoption Attorney, 
a Children of the World Executive Director and the sidling State that is New Jersey had all gambled with the path of lives.
 And now hopeful we should be, each and every soul carries a sealed fate according to visions of karma. 
     One wonders about the autumn of life – if in some of their minds…? 
…Seen loosed for the first time are an infant’s fenced-in lonely springs of life cries, which time had been known to eventually turn into joyous laughter when windblown and lost amongst a summer’s children’s own. 
    This endure of karmic atonement I can only compare if viewed as a metaphoric wind born penance remind given to a phalanx of the forgiven, 
now found ironically within a snow fence’s charged duty to help clear the avenue to adoption. 
Yet for the task of some snow fences, 
found bound is the standing turpitude of the not forgiven; it is when these weathered pickets are subjected to that same constant echoing wind that rushes past, 
drawn out from its gusts is the steady drone of haunted howls for the cold, cold company to once again surround and soon forever to be their winter life’s keep!” …An Unknown Father  



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Restricted

Perhaps on hind sight they may decide to add more time they may fix the presets to make them open they may even be more user friendly but they missed it for the first time around how can you pretend to knoeledge when you hoard it when you keep it from the whole crowd and dish it out with the silver spoon as pablum carping in a stream. Refusing to be sane and safe you LORD it over otheres no Lord no power in your hand but the gang like backing of the others of your kind insisting on rules that neither help or edify the group you seem intent on making a world of non believers full of sin and queerness restricted in the use of all equipment not needing more than querulous food fed inthevieniously overhead of all the smarter ones never will agree this is exactly what it look likes this attempt at poetry is a poor ensample of a poor example of a poor man attempting poetry. In other word the man attempting to convey to the reader a poor understanding.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Autumn

Crispy brown leaves fall softly unto the ground
The squirrels scurry around, finding nuts for the cold oncoming season
Yes, it is times for days for become shorter, and nights longer
The cold winds seem to be playing with the newly fallen leaves
Gunshots can be heard for it is hunting season
A deer falls to the ground with it's sad brown eyes
Now- it is time for leaf piles, made neatly with leaf blowers,
and ruined again from children
It's a celebration season with food to go around,
and candy with costumes-
A lovely season, it is Mother Nature's pride
It is time for picnics in the park
The best games in the World Series
It is time for going for a walk in the woods
People go for a jog to see more of this lovely season
And some just stare out their window in awe
This season has a  feeling unlike winter or summer
This is the best season of all
Autumn

Written by my daughter Elora Green, age 9. 
2002


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MY SOUL OR MY SANITY

I woke up this morning 
Heard a whisper in my ear. 
Said "Go back up the mountain 
Something more you need to hear." 

Looked out the window 
At the mountain I did stare 
Something then came over me 
Got on my knees in prayer 

The voice kept on haunting me 
Till no longer I could sleep. 
Is it my Soul or my Sanity? 
The mountain wants to keep? 

Is there such a mountain? 
Or is it only in my mind? 
Seems it keeps on telling me 
There's something I need to find 

Last time there He told me 
Of all the things He's done 
But I forgot to ask Him 
Why he took my son? 

Was there any reason? 
That I'll always question why. 
He's no longer with us. 
Why, was he the one to die? 

Said I should take His hand, 
Put my trust in Him. 
But I must be honest now 
My faith in Him is rather dim. 

Last time on that mountain 
His words went right into my heart, 
But the more I kept on thinking 
It started to tear my heart apart. 

Why is it so hard for me 
To believe in what You say? 
That there is a better place 
And You will show the way 

Did I lose my sanity? 
Did I lose my soul. 
Only this damn mountain knows 
If there's more stories to be told


Details | Prose Poetry | |

January's Wishes Spoken Through the Dishonesty of April.

Her eyes amused me, slices of January that held April tightly....

she could rain in snow, drop from upside-down skies, and we held tightly to the tears that
only appeared on the opposite side of closet doors as we marked our claim on unusual with
hand prints that never saw the sun.

Two days could have passed underneath us before we blinked, my windows whispered glorious
promises but we kept them closed for safety, for the opposition of who we could be, and
she knew the secret of every season, she knew how to laugh when bedroom doors...

closed.


I drew her behind the mirror and we created October across December stars, we became
disobedient underneath the glorious names we sang that night for lips speak magic when
they pretend to lie and dishonesty was but a kiss away from sunrise.


Time stung me come August, come March, come the age of thirty-two, her eyes had been shut
for years now and she sunk beneath flowers I am positive would be beautiful enough to
photograph had I the courage to glance, but my feet have never crossed the grass that
blankets her and roots her promises...

tangled beneath tomorrow with a tight grasp on yesterday, and I wonder if the days have
yet to fade the color of her hair.


It rained in January when I existed miles away, teardrops of memories that fell as softly
as the whispers of her name, I closed the bedroom door tightly and listened intensely for
the echoes of dishonesty, for she remained there, somewhere, behind mirrors that painted
her and the lies that bit my tongue, that reassured me...


our hand prints would hide from summer...

covered in ice-cream secrets that screamed her pain from a smile, from a foolish wish that
spoke us inseparable.


Her eyes, blue as October, slapped me, that day, as they painted themselves the secrets
girls are never supposed to witness, as they refused to allow April to fall but declared

honesty

with the beauty that she

could never see.




Details | Prose Poetry | |

Seismac

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

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 | |

~ (~) ~ (Four Part-s-Part #2) Dedicated in Love to My Little Sister ~ Tina Marie Haynes ~ (~) ~

She reminded me of my Sister Tina... She had been adopted by a Christian Minister and her family, as we all eventually were, each separately adopted... who lived life to the fullest of faith. As they adopted so many children that had their own particular needs for love, and had had their struggle themselves with their own desire for it... Tina had a rare lung disorder, a form of Emphysema, and passed away at 6 1/2 years of age... But was as grateful for life as I feel a person could aspire to be... Every time she was asked "Tina" How are you feeling today?" She would fight, and I mean with all of her love for life to say... "I am just fine today, and how are you yourself today?" And she would talk with them for a time. She could barely even speak most of the time, and was in a wheel chair and on oxygen for the majority of her life, but she wanted people to know still that her life was wonderful... and was still concerned about another's day... She new that with God, she was well taken care of, and wanted the world to know this too... "I have always found this to be the most precious and endearing thing, among the very many things about her... and so the kitten that my daughter brought home for us could barely meow, and welcomed life and struggled to embrace it even though hers was distraught at the time... We kept her, and loved her greatly, and intently for this one reason... and every time someone was not feeling well, she would lay by their side or on there chest, upon their heart, and would stay there purring until they were well... A peculiar side note about her... My wife read the bible every day, and left it on our bed... and every time Precious was in labor, she would lay on that bible, and "I believe" Be praying to God for us and her new kittens that were on the way... That their life would bring a new life of this kind to another's, and so I find that she reminded me of my Sister Tina... in so many ways... because she was always grateful for life, and another's life, loved God, and moved to show it in all her ways, and I always found that the name that we gave her "Precious". Was the most fitting and adoring and endearing name that we could have given her... Because this is what she, like my little Sister, was to all of us, and to everyone she came in contact with, and who came in contact with her... . http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=28yTkaR-q3Q&feature=related


Details | Prose Poetry | |

We'll make love like it's our last

Her touch has rendered me weak. 
I've lost the strength to speak 
And to fight the feeling. 
I lost control. 
My nails swept her cheek 
While she stayed there, kneeling. 
Her smile started to hum 
While my heart began to drum 
To the beat of her swaying. 
At last I'm whole. 
We couldn't keep from 
Each other, now we're laying 
And watching the sun lose size 
Hand in hand with closed eyes. 
The sun remains yonder. 
Our bodies' heat 
Continues to rise 
As we let our hands wander. 
Necking in the flowers, 
Minutes feel like hours 
But time's still flying too fast. 
We're both complete. 
This night is ours. 
And we'll make love like it's our last.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lost Time

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

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

On the Sundays I Cried and Tasted His Kiss.

My eyes closed, he made me breathe, he stopped...

and I cried, I drowned myself in the taste of how it should be as he opened me, opened his
hand and showed me the way time escapes from us, and I would say...

yes...

in that moment, I would whisper myself across his hands and we'd watch yesterday scatter,
I'd study confusion and laugh.


I wanted to tell him that if I walked, I'd stumble, my head would turn backwards towards
him waiting to see him run...

but I'd never call, not once, not on a Saturday when the sun broke the sky and clouds
shattered, pieces of my heart breaking...

waiting...

for him to understand.


Nights followed me and daydreams appeared in his open mouth as I brushed my lips across
his shoulders and watched tomorrow come true, and I never wanted much, I never begged for
him, I fell to his side, I felt my life dissolve into him, I whispered secrets because
when he sleeps...

he never hears me...

he never knows I'm scared.



I wanted to agree, but blue never dropped down in straight lines and I was terrified my
tears would fall in patterns that resembled pain, I wanted to open my mouth and show him
who I was, but my voice sounds too pretty when I speak his name...

I wanted to tell him, but he slept...

he dreamed while my secrets kissed his skin and hushed the Saturdays I'd 

waited

for him to call

and the Sundays when my tears tasted a little bit like how it should be

when my lips

still

tasted him.





Details | Prose Poetry | |

You love

You love.odt You love Why do eye seem afraid of you undaunted by the passing of the time the love is what is most important kept in the passing of the fear of you most people take for granted love they live the wonderful and never have the need or want the part eye have for you in secret kept to tell you love the agony of love is this just weeping uncontrollably no time to give you love no time to make you understand my love is thine the gift of man the end of time the birth of god is coming soon suddenly a man comes he is rushing madly headlong in such a hurry he is frowning he passes me and eye smile and as eye smile his angry is telling me why are you smiling and then he is gone like the winding road and yet eye smile and because he was struggling with the passing of the time and he must hurry so to be the adamant being in his hurry does not excuse my joy is love for you this is my love for you my happiness at seeing others struggle for what we have is pure and new you love


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Number Eight

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

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

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

FAMILY GATHERING

                                                    SIX FORTY-FIVE A.M.
                                                    (FAMILY GATHERING)

You knew I was scared
Of flying almost as much
As I was scared of you.
Yet, you decided it was time
For me to fly in and
Watch you die.

The phone rang at 6:45 a.m.
What else could it be?  You have been sick
Forever.  After twenty rings (I counted), I picked up
The phone and my sister stated the obvious:
He is dying.  We are
gathering the family.

I said:  This time for real?
Because you had died at least once
A month for the past six months
And I had received nothing
For my fear except useless
Frequent flyer miles.

You knew I’d come even though I hated family
Gatherings almost as much as I hated 
Flying . . . you.  I packed a small bag,
Boarded the plane, and took four Xanax.
I passed out for the duration of the flight
And for the entire time it took you to die.

Eventually, I traded my frequent flyer miles
In for an i-Pod.  And since your death
I have refused to attend 
any family gatherings.
I have not had to fly.
I have not been scared.

Copyrighted
Jim Brewer
April 28, 2011


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Rocks and Limes

~ ~~~ ~~~~ ~~~ ..... ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ..... ~~~ ~~~~ ~~~ ..... ~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~ .................... ~ ""Love knows- no division... an open- decision adversity matters-not... Love seize-the-opportunity - "God's- Heart - an open-playground-the-World; His-Grand Churchyard!"" ""Empowered are those-who know-this; remain-willing... live to show-this-be- honest with-themselves - "They know - peace is not fleeting - in the offering Love is abounding!"" ~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ..... ... . .. ... .. . . . ~ "Time is patient, yes?" "God created it if you would be willing to consider this, if to believe in Him, you do, or do not." "Who says that it's not righteous to question the one who made everything?" "Though I would never myself if I'm not willing to remain patient with Him, am not open to His answer." "Here is an example if you will... ?" .......................................... "I used to live in Florida. We had a lime tree in the side yard. I picked up a lime one day, and something, (I believe it to be God now) told me to toss it up and try and catch it-keep doing it. Moving to fast I kept dropping it time and again. It was frustrating; very! The idea hit me that if I were to slow down I might then have a greater chance of catching it on a more regular basis. It turned out to be the truth. This was my first moment of enlightenment. Soon I was tossing it and moving faster than when I originally was when I first began. I talked with my idea at the time of God. Having slowed down, I was able to hear Him far better as well. I came to know of even more of Him through my curiosities I gave to Him, all my questions, considerations... concerns. With each toss He answered me without fail, with the truth and various and even more greater levels of this same truth. It has been some years now. The limes I used to fail in catching them and sometimes they used to fall and bop me right on my face head and even my nose. I live else where now, don't have any limes, but I have plenty of rocks, if I look... ! Either lime or rock, God I have found is a Gentleman, always willing to teach me, though sometimes the lesson, can be hard." ~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Author notes ~ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WIsou0IRIQU ~


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The Seventh Fable

 The Seventh Fable 
The Seventh Fable 
 
Charlaxes Fables 
 
Mental Prefabrications 
 


People have preconceived ideas from Religion and Television 

combine these two ideas and no wonder everyone is mental. 

The Eye is just now thankful that the computer was not mine at age 14. The TV 
was enough to ruin me for life. It is no wonder that eye still don't have a life. 
Falling into cracks made just for me. Living in the NEW AGE causes so much 
uncertainty and problems we avoided in our past come back as daily necessities 
of the mass of useless protoplasmic mice eye once saw a man on the highway 
with a sign he was begging for more money to get some more useless wine so 
the people went zigging past avoiding him until he fell down on the ground it 
seemed to me he was passed out perhaps he died and no one buried him 
sounds like an episode of Twilight Zone. There was episodes eye will never 
forget the NOSE throbbing on the stairs inside the house the girl tried to leave the 
shelter of the fence once out she turned to dust the man with the wires in his arm 
seeing the oven where he was born the little airforce people in the GIANT 
woman's kitchen getting swept. 

It just occurred to me the ins and outs of celebrity imagine all the casting calls to 
make the episodes. AND the fact that Charlax was never chosen for even one of 
them seems sort of some kind of twisted justice the actors used were just the 
best of all the crème de le crème of all the hollywooded jest. Webseries Pilot 
casting call: 
The Charlax would be excellent at this OH wait look at that ethnic face. Male, 
open ethnicity, early to mid 30's - JG. Federal Agency Detective.  Good at his job, 
but fresh enough to still want to make a difference. Oh if eye were only Twenty 
Years different. A Twilight Zoned Detecative with the name Rick Roll selected and 
elected to be the actor of the myllineum. 
   


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Googled my self silly

A popular trend today is to google the names of friends 
A phenomenon born of curiosity and not a little trepidation.
They could be criminals on the run or worse it all depends
May be they’re contributors to the poetry foundation
As soon as it begins my query ends
because my name seems to be all over creation
yet I find nothing about the me that I know
so It’s time to end this fascination
For me it’s time just to let it go


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Grinning Tears That Held the Shade of Southern Suicides.

There was the capture of life somewhere inside his eyes...

We wiped away tears in the slipping of secrets, and I remembered the draw of suicide as
the shade of Southern Octobers grasped me in his glance.

He pursued me, his kiss and his smile the nets that tangled my feet up North, somewhere,
on I-95, his voice interrupted my destination and I supposed his face at midnight would be
my end, ironic, as he turned death....

upside

down.


We fed on control, that of ourselves, lost it in the snows that blanketed March, and
though I counted every one of my footprints, I only circled myself right back to him.


I never realized the nightmares that held me, the three a.m. teardrops that would stain
his perfect shoulders because my lips tasted that skin right before my last breath was
taken, in the seconds that proceeded the metamorphosis of life, and we took a turn to the
left as we discovered each other on the inside, and I felt that existing in the middle was
better...

than never

existing

at.all.


He heard me, every catch in my voice, every lost word that floated in between the curtains
that we drew for safety, he agreed in the direction of sunrise, for who was I to argue
with silence and the sleep that occurred after I broke my most famous rule?


He wanted us to be normal as laughter interrupted me, as fear grasped my throat, and I
choked on my own words as the dictionary definition of life eluded me, and for those
seconds that threw honesty away, I remembered it was yet September, we were up North, and
the surrealism of tragic Southern October nights were but the embers that burned on the
edge of his 

snow-white cigarette

and the ashes of his exhalations

that scoffed impossibility at me with the hope

that the end would recall I-95

and the remembrance of his smile

at midnight.






Details | Prose Poetry | |

From dusk to dawn

Night comes and calls for darkness,
bringing end of the day or something, or the hope for a new sunshine ,
For the rise of a new day ;
a newfangled day wrapped like a bride in unrevealed attire,
don’t know what will be inside?
Perhaps new paths to fulfill our dreams, or vicious way to destroy our desires??
like a house newly built or an already built house on fire?
Whatever comes across, in the journey of life-
Why worry?
Why hurry?
to discover the unknown, and forget the present?
Nope, why do that? Why not enjoy the existing life and why forget our life's essence?
Thee is the creator,
And we- the exciting creations.
Life is a game we playing,
but full of expectations.
one day I just thought-
and my mind states fought,
with each other....and finally-
I was dancing on the hill top singing my favorite song,
When suddenly the bell rang at the time so wrong!,
and my dream came to end,
It’s the time to go to work, finally.
bye to dreams, welcome the new day,
an another humdrum day,
And somebody felt how the sunshine burnt the hay…….


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sunshine By WLM November 25, 2008

Sunshine
11-25-08
William L. Moore

Outside the sun is grand
In which I love to stand
Soaking up all the rays
Hope it stays this way for days

The breeze is cool
Like a shining Jewel 
The noise is so quiet
You wish you could buy it 

How heavenly I feel
It tis the real deal
The beauty abounds
As I walk around

The planes fly high
In the deep blue sky
Marking their time
Just follow the line

The tall trees that show
Will continue to grow
And are the trees we love to see
Glory Be!  We will jump up with Glee!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Concrete, Skinned Knees, and the Conclusion of Forever.

He grasped my fingers and I took a breath,

I counted to five and allowed my palms to sweat...

I stood, Converse clad feet turned inwards towards my opposite knees and thought about the
irony of plaid, I looked to rabbit ear shoelaces with tugs in the bows, and wondered...

how to make decisions.


Here we were and ankle length white skirts held the past in their hems, I fell beyond the
boat docks that became swallowed by the sea, once, twice, and someone told me, on a warm
afternoon in September where trees sheltered us from pouring rain, I spun on concrete as
if it couldn't break me....

I replied in a grinning whisper, words that danced through raindrops and giggled through
clouds,

“No, it shatters.”


I shook in the moment I remembered with my heart first and my mind later, because I loved
him so much on that night that the words didn't matter and I spun as April melted
inbetween us and sheets held the skin that told my secrets, the tattoo who heard
everything, and she heard me sigh, she heard me...

smile when I slept...

the sound of him, the days flooded, I fell...

on concrete...

and skinned my knee, I studied the shade of my bruises and the tiny drops of blood, I got
up and wiped the dirt off my hands, I studied my palms and my fingers and counted to

f i v e...

months later, I swallowed his voice, I attacked the shame I had in holding onto him for so
long, and I changed my shoes, untied the laces and zipped up boots, whose black leather
hugged my calves, whose toes were scuffed from all the miles I had walked, ran, and bumped
into him...

and the hems of my jeans, frayed, and stained with the dirt that settles on...

concrete...

rubbed up against his as I took his hand and looked down at the intricate patterns of the
way we held on...

I kissed him, then, when the rain stopped, and counted, as my teeth ran across the lips
that still tasted of his breath...

to one, and closed my eyes, to two, and opened them, and underneath the shadows that broke
the sky with my lashes, I reached...

forever. 






Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Taste of Autumn Underneath the Words I Forgot to Speak.

I stopped and turned to look at who we were now, I fell in love with the distractions that
hid behind the sun when afternoon appeared in his eyes and I rolled mine back...

underneath my lids..

to allow time to kiss my lashes.


He held me, he stopped tomorrow from bruising my arms, the Autumn touching my tattoo, and
I could have stolen his lips just so I'd never have to let go of his smile.


I knew, behind the reasons I gave, that October was waiting, I was aware of fire and
touched the flames that became the fabric of my tongue, my teeth died when I spoke and I
tasted him...

to bring myself back to life.


I studied sunrise and wished for rainbows, I discovered the selfishness that lay in the
desire to sacrifice myself...

only to remember January...

only to know me...

only to touch the shade of blue that existed in his glance.


On the bottom of my lips I hold December and I tremble the month with the fear that goes
unspoken, I pray that tomorrow Autumn will touch me, I forget the possibilities of me and
throw myself over the edges of him...

the sweet corners of his smile...

and the promise of life...

to douse my tongue and speak the diaries of yesterday, to rewrite him and understand

tomorrow.





Details | Prose Poetry | |

Finding Innocence in the Laughter That Escapes Pillowcases.

Behind the sun, with a little bit of assuredness, I saw the shades of his smile
swing toward the moon...
and I cursed six p.m. In a voice that hid the memories of
nineteen~ninety~two
when I wore my shoes underneath the shadows of stars and in the feel of his lips
when sixteen is innocent despite the cold exposure
of skin.


I wonder if he knows I whisper to him in his sleep, my promises slipping underneath the
blanket he holds tight around him,
and feathers escape pillowcases when I laugh,
they tickle toes and dissolve the taste of fear
as my tongue finds the outline of his lips after the sun falls down and his
smile
is apparent.


I tidy myself up on Mondays, and wreck the idea of perfection with my curls...
I wear jeans that smudge mountains across back pockets and imagine how the hem of my
burgandy dress would fall across chilled creek splashed rocks,
I wonder if I'd be able to stay pretty when my hands fall into mud and the wind attacks my
cheeks...
but he smiles, you see, when the sun falls...
he smiles when I change my clothes...
and he kisses me when my curls detest reality and Monday smirks at the idea of cleanliness
as my imagination drowns hems and rips fabric.


So I kick off my shoes with the idea that my toes can taste Tuesday and my feet can squash
the memories of
nineteen~ninety~two
and revel in innocence as I discover
the cold exposure
of skin.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Writers Tail liaT sretirW ehT

The Writers Tail liaT sretirW ehT
by Charles Robert Hice on Wednesday, November 28, 2012 at 12:22pm ·
The Writers Tail
the poor writer can not post a poem anywhere to be recognized himself as a poet unless he writes a longish Devels tail complete with hooks and forks and splitting hoofs and tines in tomes you realize these publishers drink large amounts of alcoholic beverages and seek people to turn down they love to see someone saying homeless poems the frown and then the delete button when will they come to some conclusion that the ether thinking is the faulty mind life is better lived poor and sober how can any one help others to be someone iff they are drunk feet upp on the ottoman ice clinking against the windows and the glasses always half full and half empty ready at any moment to delete all details of any poor peoples emails so you want to post in this magazine afraid knot click delete delete the extra page is missing the long appendage added on is gone they removed all of the appendix index we told you to send an attachment means a file a doc or a document eye tried to attach my soul to my heart but there just is no space is taken up one old woman no pets allowed someday every item that eye write will flash before my eye it will be broadcast on heavens wifi for all the angels there to read each dot and t is crossed there no time lost to read eye will post my items on the heavens wifi for all eternity you stupid people who cant publish me make photostatic copies of my work and glue them to the bottoms of your shoes and stomp them in the dirt you walk back and forth on your thrown rug down on the floor until you cannot see the words and then you toss them into doors threw cracks and howl with glee cause Johnny cannot read me YOU CARACKED MY READING GLASSES BROKE MY TEETH  AND MADE ME GASP FOR BREATH TO BREATHE now little Johnny cannot read. Three shoelaces to make two shoes how many feet does little Johhny use. This tale hath a tail like the INcan Comet of Destruction can you see it in the sky it will be there the day we die. HOT ROCKS FALLING FROM THE SKY the day before the world turned green and died. Here is the cannonical mathmatical equation now. Take the INfinite lights in the sky what they really seem to be and move them to the end of time try to see them falling down. Tumble to the sea my lasting problems will never get ahold of me to hurt me whan they tumble to the sea eye will be set free whan my lasting problems thay tumble to the sea


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sunshine By WLM November 25, 2008

Outside the sun is grand
In which I love to stand
Soaking up all the rays
Hope it stays this way for days

The breeze is cool
Like a shining Jewel 
The noise is so quiet
You wish you could buy it 

How heavenly I feel
It tis the real deal
The beauty abounds
As I walk around

The planes fly high
In the deep blue sky
Marking their time
Just follow the line

The tall trees that show
Will continue to grow
And are the trees we love to see
Glory Be!  We will jump up with Glee!


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How Sunrise Practiced Never When I Forgot to Sing.

I used to sing to him, my mouth would brush across his shoulders and he would dream...

I captured his hair and apologized for staying too long, but, God, what was time when his
breath hung about me, the dancing proclamations that I could be...

more.


I whispered promises to no one but me, I broke every one as the tears I cried for him
became the paintbrushes and canvases that spoke me, and October afternoons were way too
warm when his voice became absent, as I sang to him, through the wind and remembered...

nothing.



He appeared to be way too much and I couldn't hold my hands tight enough to let go, I
wished for his eyes as I blew a strand of summer blond hair to the west and watched the
sky blink and become the moment of waking, and I woke...

up...

to silence as I held myself tighter in the dark that appears right before storms.


Disbelief covered me because time lied and forever ended way too soon, I knew he told me
never and I searched for it, I decided it must exist in tomorrow's sky, in the clouds that
sometimes...

blinked...

but refused to smile.


My lips permitted the escape of my tongue to speak my experiences clearly as I found
myself on the edge of a dream that almost dropped me, and gray blue dresses tear so easily
when storms are unforgiving at the sight of a woman's foolishness, still...

I ran to him with summer feet, bare and burnt, however unaware they were of pain, for I
couldn't lose forever and never was only the way sunrise smiled at me...

teeth missing and fire~struck~angry when alone...

just to find out if sometimes was the way we left when tears strike and his eyes forget
the blue that silences the sky when we laugh the way children do...

and I sing...

forever back to sleep.





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A Time Of Butterflies

From the milk weed fields
Outside of town
I watch small rugs 
Of reds, browns and blacks
Slowly make their way
Across the road

A thousand legs
Simultaneously striking the ground
Going somewhere 
From someplace unknown
It’s the march of the caterpillars

This is a time of transformation
A time of change
Soon 
They will be out of sight
Carpets running into the woods
Fading into the countryside

Someday soon I’ll return
To watch the beauty of nature
Dance in the milkweed fields
Sometime soon
I will come to see
A time of the butterflies


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Old Styles Old Smiles

One fine blustering autumn day an old man puts on his boots pulls up his trousers off he goes,
If anyone wondered where he was going it was to a forest a good long walk it was a fine day,
The old man walked at a leisurely pace stopping every now and again pulling up his trousers,
Looking over fences just to see what the farmer’s men were up to and who was ploughing today.

In his days, the prime of his life, he and his old horse would plough the fields from early morning,
Working through the day stopping for a bottle of cold tea a loaf of bread and a large lump of cheese,
The horse had a nosebag and while they rested, eating, the clapper of the bird boy could be heard,
He would work on until the sun went down on a blue horizon and shadows disappeared with the day.

As he paused he took pleasure at the sight of fat cattle and poultry roaming around the farmhouse,
Duck and geese and turkeys busying themselves beside the big barn doors pecking out the chaff,
And he could hear the flail, or the swipple, knocking the corn, as the bails piled high in the barn,
Happy that all was well he carried on walking, smiling and made his way up to the brow of a hill.

As a young farmer he leaped over stiles and ran in the corn, the land was his workplace and home,
There was no job he could not do or did not enjoy doing, whatever needed doing it had to be done,
His arms were so thick, strong, the farm girls giggled but could not get their hands all the way round,
He used to blush as each girl tried, he was a bit shy, but it made him feel good to be so very strong.

He also stopped at stiles, or a rustic bridge casting its arch over water, fish swam in the shallows
Breathing in deeply through his nose, sampling the fresh autumnal air, a bonfire in the distance,
After looking all around he wished he had brought some tackle to catch some for his late dinner,
Never mind he thought it’s another day tomorrow I will be up here to fish at the crack of the dawn.

In his young days he was not allowed to fish the river, so in the moonless nights he would poach,
Beautiful brown trout as fresh as a berry from a tree eaten with warm bread a feast fit for a king,
It would not be long before he stopped again getting his breath resting for a few short minutes,
As his lungs filled with the purest of pure air he restarted his country walk and relived his life.

He passed by clusters of rich, jetty blackberries hanging from a hedge and took time to pick a few,
And clusters of nuts hanging by the wayside through the copse on his way along a little old lane,
And in all this natural beauty the old man seemed to have enjoyment of a child one more time,
The world moved around but this time backwards he saw the things he used to see as a young boy


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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.





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IT IS NOT ENOUGH

It is not enough to say I love you
It’s in actions it must be seen
It’s not enough to strike out on your own
We must walk where Jesus has been
It’s not enough to say I forgive you
If it does not come right from the heart
It’s not enough to say I’m sorry
If there’s bitterness there from the start
It’s not enough to stand outside the door
When Father says come in side
It is not enough to wear sin stained garments
When Father wants a spotless bride
It wont be enough to make excuses
If Jesus were to come today
There wont be the time to repent on your knees
There will be no time to pray
It is not enough to say I love you
It’s in actions it must be seen


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A Time of Scurrying Squirrels

Autumn arrived
With a cool morning wind
And the rustling 
Of golden brown leaves
That changed color
As they hysterically danced
Through the town streets
Before heading out
To their winter home

Here and there
Gangs of ferocious squirrels 
Ran up and down the trees
Harvesting whatever fruits and nuts 
That refused to drop
From the shivering trees
Whose bare bark
Could be heard
All about the woods

As I watched
Their once small mouths
Now bulging
With bits and pieces
Of summers’ leftover bounty
Hurrying down 
The old woodland paths
I couldn’t help but smile

This is the time of year
That I enjoy the most
A time of transition
When the earth 
Prepares for a long winters nap
Yes, it most definitely was
(As I thought to myself smiling)
A time of scurrying squirrels


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Eleventh Fable

 Eleventh Fable     
 
 
Author Message 
Admin
Admin



Age : 53
Joined : 13 Jun 2007
Posts : 719

 Subject: Eleventh Fable   Today at 18:26      

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
Eleventh Fable 

Eleventh Fable 

The Millionth Dollar 

Charlaxes Fables 

Some people live in misery afraid to spend a dollar bill is one a friend but he just 
won't let it go. The man walks or rides his bike even in the snow not using public 
transportation anywhere he goes. A Child is young too young to knoe just what 
money's for. She takes the dollar in her hand and keeps it never spending it and 
never letting go. 
Song 1001 
Aern't ewe the one that eye love 
Aern't ewe the love the only love that eye have 
Aern't ewe the one that eye love 
Aern't ewe the reason this man gets up 
Aren't ewe the love that eye have 
Aern't ewe the purple cloud 
Aern't ewe the heart of the rain 
Aren't ewe the name in the sky? 
Aren't you the song 1001? 
Aern't eye the one? 
The millionth dollar has been spent the millionth tear eye cried the millionth time 
eye tried to make a song was this one number one thousand one. Time will wait 
for no one let us rule the time with love. 
 
           
 
 Eleventh Fable 
 


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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 | |

Rubrics Cube Delight


Befor I make any decision's
On how to play this game
  I take the time and ask
           For Jesus'
Because He really
Know's how to play
        The game
      ------ 
     Because of He
Fore He entertain's wisom
   This gift is his fame
     And something else
    He is the keeper
             -Of- 
     Thy Holy name
      ------
Now I know that I can
Play the cube in this game
           Of life
I can make my His own
         Decision's
Maybe even land me a wife
      ------
I can play it more than twice
    With time permitting
I can play for the rest of my life
             And to think
I will never have to think twice
This is my eternal, everlasting
             Vice for life

                 GF


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Soft Glowing Embers

The birds are rejoicing this morning...Each species is trying to out sing the other..The 
sunrise calls me to enjoy its glow of kaleidoscope of color dancing off the whispy 
charcoal clouds..The quiet__freedom from manmade sound is just temporary for cars and 
trucks constantly interrupt the peace but the birds don't slow down one bit...They are just 
praising God for the glorious day that he has honored them to live.. The mist or fog in the 
first valley is not as dense this morning as if it is has dried out somewhat but rain is 
suppose to come back in so we will be having more fog and mist..Thanks God for the 
moisture and the cool of the day for the heat of summer will be here and along with it 
uncomfortable weather...The color of the sky has changed again ..It seems that the sun 
is trying to warm the sand colored clouds with a soft glowing fire that is just barely 
burning.. The embers are soft red hot on the horizon. . The roosters are trying their best 
to bring the sun on up....The other birds have quieted somewhat..It seems that they have 
had their time of worship and have gathered food to carry home to the young...Now the 
embers on the horizon have renewed and a bright glow comes form the sun fire that 
warms the earth....Thank you Lord for the time on the porch to renew and refresh my inner 
being...Amen


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Matilda's October

Frankly I'll stare blankly into darkness all the time I wish I could and you still in the 
spot you stood saying this time for good I knew you'd stay just like I thought you 
should. Were alone in these vacant woods this situtation aint no good it's been 
sixteen days were misunderstood common sence is on vacation so let's take up 
roots in a new location, light a trail through our duration build a new on this 
foundation show the world to a standing ovation then settle down into salvation 
enjoy the scene a surreal sensation finally give in to our temptations. As I look at 
you your my admiration so there's time for celebration intuition planted in this vast 
constellation let's break this disolation repair unflattering devastation it's our time 
total domination. Tonight we take our place among moonlight break the void escape 
the sunlight into this eve we'll both take flight a wrected hyme we learned by sight 
let's take advantage to much delight. Before October let's set things right in the end 
we shall ascend.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

How I Will Remember You

Every time I think of you
I’ll see your smiling face
In your hands you kept my heart
And within my arms your embrace. 

We had our share of ups and downs
We didn’t always see eye to eye
Remembering the times you made me laugh
Made it easy to forget each time I cried.

We always stood up for the good in each other
And with God’s help got rid of the bad
What better a family could one man have asked for
Than the one I’ve had.

I thank you for all you’ve done
I was blessed to have you at my side
Your job as my guardian angels is done
Now God’s angels will be my guide.

When I needed you most you were there for me
Now there’s nothing more to worry about
Although God’s always had it
He’s got it from here on out.


This is how I will remember you.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Concerns of an Emblematic Unicorn

         Defying gravity, I stand paralyzed on this wall day in and day out. Although my 
friends and I spend time together in the forest, I feel ensnared like a mouse in a 
trap. What makes me any different than a mouse caught in a trap anyway? Every 
day people come to stare at me as if I am some attraction, some tool to please the 
eyes of a murderous race. Oh what I would give to be that mouse…no one wants to 
see the mouse: they just want to get rid of it. The fire of a thousand stares burn my 
skin day after day. I now understand the difference between the mouse and the 
unicorn: a quick, untimely death as opposed to my slow…my painful…my burning 
existence. Species like me exist for the mere pleasure of others. I am the 
entertainer. I am the jester. My so-called glory is the glory of a King led to His cruel 
death. Is this how He felt? You who I was created to signify…is this what You felt? Is 
this what You call glory? Man reveres me! They call me the most pure and the most 
elegant of all the creatures! What have I done…what have we done to deserve 
this? Why do I even ask? There is no use…my paralytic existence keeps my 
questions from the world. If man could hear me for just one moment, I would tell 
them this: 
Walk across the room,
Spot the tapestry,
By the time you get there,
Man has slaughtered me.


Confused? Do some research on the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art's exhibit 
of the tapestry room ;)


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Drifting Through Time

 
A veil of mist blankets the river, slowly drifting over its banks as the moon ghosts silently 
behind thin dark clouds.  A frog croaks and after awhile a cricket answers. A soft ker-plunk 
echoes across the water  as something breaks the surface for a split second, than vanishes 
into its murky depths.  And far away a mid night bird cries out to the darkness. Than all is 
still.  High above the river  I sit naked in a hot tub, a disembodied head floating silently on 
top of  black steaming waters.  My head is leaned back.  My eyes closed as beads of sweat 
run down my face.  My ears are open though,  as sound fills them, mixes with thought  and  
takes me to far away places.   Places that perhaps only exist in dreams.  The pool, 
illuminated by dark blue lights, reflect off the steam rising up, casting an eerie glow and 
dancing shadows about the night.  It is a Saturday night and I’m alone trapped in paradises 
prison.   Alone in a town that is known for its elderly.  A town buried amidst the lagoons of 
Florida.  But for awhile my mind is free to wonder.  And it does, over forests and endless 
deserts , over oceans and mountains, rivers and canyons.  Drifting through time like a H. G. 
Wells machine.  From past to  present to future and back again, in a blink.    Through 
cultures and civilizations.  Hovering over cities with names so ancient and alive they stir up 
your very being. Cities like Shanghai, Bombay, Casablanca, Istanbul,  Athens, and Paris.  
Cities with so much history locked into one name.  Then there are cities that are myths that 
may or may not have been alive  yet the name is a wonder to behold, like Alantis and El 
Dorado.  But time wears them away to nothing.  A rock wiped away by wind.  Cities that had 
once been so alive now empty shells of their former glory.   Slowly my mind is pulled back 
into reality.  The time is late, and the new day awaits.  Dripping I regretfully clamber out of 
the hot tub swirl a towel around my bare skin and head for the bed where unimaginable 
worlds and stories will play out as I sleep.


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.


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Cairo

Standing in Cairo market
streets bustling
horns honking
children’s
laughter
ball throwing
heat simmering
the melting pot.
Caught
in between
ancient and modern
sellers market
wares and bargain
prices over jewels and silks
fruits and vegetables.
Something about Cairo
City Triumphant.

Sipping espresso at a near
by cafe in the 
center of the bazaar.
Camels traded and sold
tips given by the owners.
Fine linens and silks
bangles and jangles of silver
copper, and gold jewelry.
Ceramics and glass jars
of all shapes and sizes.
Beautiful intricate artisanship,
music floats from the
music shops.

21st century effectual Pharaohs walk the
streets admiring the wares.
Where I have Paris on the Nile it
still runs cool to the touch.
Ancient Gates remain.
Cities of the Dead still hold their
legends with no refrain.
I see a silk scarf I have to 
have a bangle or two and
some espresso for the road.
The jewel of the orient
holds her beauty well.


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~ (~) ~ The Open Actions of a Sinner ~ (~) ~

~ (~) The true meaning I-am-I feel of a tiered heart the open actions of a sinner, God be Him as I believe undoubtedly I know He is; I pray He grant me mercy. (~) ~ ~ (~) Though time may further wither-placate beholden may His grace bring me the merry day I fall laying broken before His goodness. (~) ~ ~ (~) Shadows they play mid the Sun's subtle-and-ominous tones, freedom telling tells always of-more time... whether it be mordant, or by future tense that lay still dormant. (~) ~ ~ (~) Haven't any moneys to think of I could steel buy or borrow, leaving-someday-maybe- today... remembering time a treasure pleasure of the past present always possible-future — but open I am, though time my greatest teacher — is killing this pupil. (~) ~ ~ (~) Some softly woven-vibrantly-spoken words-mellow tones all of these I have given in my life, though now I pray truly they be virtuous. (~) ~ ~ (~) The body aches, the mind crying in its wake, tiered now I feel I have taken-endured enough, though I know death its-always-consuming me, before I go let its hope grant the light to see for another, let-my words be-final... genuine; undivided-and-bold. (~) ~ ~ (~) "Humbly, as I pray it would be for you, death; as I can only hope it would be with me... may it-move-to you sweetly... ." (~) ~ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VU_rTX23V7Q&feature=related


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Enthusiast

Enthusiasm is a sharp blade in our toolbox of genuine stories.
The box embroidered with desire and filled with emotions you learned before thinking
to raise your right hand 
and give your answer an
honest try.

A want
to be willing 
to be worth it.
That’s what enthusiasm brings.

A hammering heart next to 
the beating one you have 
no control over.
It beats the blood upward like piano keys
hammering your brain to 
make a decision for your body to act upon.
A decision that breaks 
mantic-metallic peace and concrete brick chaos 
into two opaque pieces
and welds a glass mirror of love 
in between 
to remind you that the 
happiest time of life prescribed 
to you was when you saw 
your reflection 
and could see through any
circumstance
clearly.

We call ourselves blacksmiths.
Take bits and pieces of moments 
and memories
lay them across the 
old wooden table 
and try to piece together
a sword shiny enough to
smile at your problems in the steel.
But there is sword so spotless
No, there is no sword
strong enough to keep the 
table from splintering your fingers.
Foundation is everything.
A deaf man screaming at 
a blind girl’s watch dog 
to direct her out of green light traffic 
will do nothing more but 
make the mutt angry
and he will bite at your hand
for feeding his master murderous
mumbles. 
If there is one thing 
that my life stories have 
taught me 
it’s that you can’t wield an excalibur of peace 
with a wood-splintered vision
of the future
And that you can be 
the cause of chaos 
if no one understands
what you’re saying.
‘Grabbing for breath has now broken my fingers.’
No matter what your 
intentions are 
actions will always speak louder than traffic-signal speech. 
So forge enthusiasm inside
of a burning desire 
to love other 
people 
without being so judgmental.
The toolbox of genuine,
embroidered with desire
grins at me
every time I see my reflection
and see you standing
by my side.
My enthusiast.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Daisies and the Way to Undress Summer.

“Dress me in daises,” I said, as if flowers could cover my skin in respectable ways, and
he smiled as my shoe boxes of paint tipped over, as the floor became art and the way I
walked towards him smeared my heart at his feet.


We captured laughter this way, drawing insensibilities in between us, and there was an
element of beauty in the grin of a child when it appeared to dance across his grown up
cheeks, an attraction to Peter Pan, and blond hair in the summer, as I thought I could
capture July...


The month used to sit beside my bed, fluttering night lights to save me from dreams, stars
danced in mason jars and fairytales were whispered beyond moonlight as I wrote them in my
dreams, as I watched seasons disappear into morning light.


I arrested kisses with a word and slipped them in my pockets, he commented on the rips
that always decorated the hems of my blue jeans, I played with the brown flowered
patches at me knees, I looked at him and told him my secrets, I whispered content beneath
the spring as we watched summer rise, as the sky became a canvas and I wished my hands
were more capable...


“Show me the way beyond you,” he requested, as my glance became puzzled, “Show me who you
are.”


He handed me a daisy, he told me to undress, I studied the petals as they fell to my feet,
my toes became blanketed...

and I walked towards him...


the decoration of spring mapping out my heart, and he smiled with a mouth that grinned
when he spoke my name, when he laughed in the fashion of a child and held me under
moonlight when spring faded and summer came.





Details | Prose Poetry | |

Grace

"~ (~) ~" "oh god- tender, gracious - render us softly upon fields silken- lavender flower-petaline clear-sky's paradise- golden... - till when if then there-we make-it... ?" bushel, animate deaden never ever eminent this hope. your-blessing, adduce. yes-privy wassail us- in your confidence. make us again, our maker. chandler fashion us noble modest in your hands render me as due broken the mold another wick reaching to be enlightened. oh yes grant us this peace i-pray. for-we will, now-as simply just, to follow... . - temperate-songs--echo it's fervor-it's love as-gay it's passion-falling rising-in it's-innocence capturing my-heart leaping-as i trip gazing - because still to-know myself-in my-sins - realizing-it's beauty-sings, open-yes grace oh-it brings my-heart to-tears ever-grateful as-they are - so for whatever could-this weary soul-aspire for now - not just for myself, but for all others... . - "so i die to dream in flight oh of my god altruistic, his-faithfulness, grace, my fancy those days of young and old, yes of-one thriving wellspring, because i'm finding-now - forever, this time with him surrendered merely abides to remain as pure, yes- running along dancing with him as boldly just as bold-- so given my desire, friend - "wherever, yes-where from-here, would i go... ?" - yea this quest - adventure granted receiving accepting offering his mercy truly is the only one to fight for i'm seeing--the only one-greater-abandon granted-us all, to-work to-uphold... !" - because all shepherds protect the-heard; abiding in patience- yours; their hands serve, knowing them... - yours... as-perfect - "loneliness hides itself in the refuge of the lord... ." - "because if in any part i with hold it mercy, i will never be able to see it as it is offered all of us, its perfect gift, blessing of forgiveness and truth... ." - "peace... !" - "for what-all it worth- yes for the likening i write, albeit for-god, or-myself; because i aspire-through him-to always reckon-my thoughts my-dreams need for him, this-way. "for yes--his love - the perfecter-of my life... !" - "though from time to time it seem by him largely-unrequited."" and so... my soul leapt, thinking... peace, love and freedom truly are a blessing - drifting off to sleep realizing this hope, is everything... - extra... ! -


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Shadow Art

Her tail quivering 
My cat leapt into the air 
Grabbing hold of my ceiling light 

Being a boring night 
I turned the light on 
And watched her shadow 
Change from time to time 

Sometimes it appeared to be a face 
Other times… as a large bird 
But later that night 
The best shadow she projected 
Was one of a cat 
Hanging from the ceiling


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 | |

No More

No More
~~~~~~~~
You used to make me nervous every time I heard your voice
It felt so good for the sound reached deep inside to those
long empty places
You used to make me smile, as I imagined that kiss and how
sweet it had to be
It awakened stirrings in my mind and soul, you even made me
believe again
You used to turn me on in the blink of an eye, your body 
incredibly soft yet crazy firm
Seeing the perfect curve of your breast was always a sensual
treat I stole glances at will
You used to make me a slave to you desires, there was 
nothing I wouldn't do for you
And you know this is true in my eyes no other could even
compare
You used to make me so happy, just the thought of your smile  
or those dark flowing tresses
That always clean and still undoubtedly woman’s scent and 
the sweet golden tender tasty flesh
You used to make me nervous with anticipation of the day we
would make sweet love for time without end
Now to be honest sweet lady, you just scare me almost witless.
                                     


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 | |

Footballers

Over paid and over rated
over sexed and disgraced

Role models? cheating on their wives.
they get paid an sickening amount of money for kicking around a ball.

Racism and swearing, and think their above the law.

Ryan Giggs now don't get me started.  The youth of today all want fame as Jessie j stated 'it's all about the money money!

Football in my opinion it's overrated.  Not like back in the day when it was for the love of the game not the fame.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

No Excuses

No Excuses

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

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Forgetful Fisherman

The forgetful fisherman was as wise as he was forgetful. 
Some even said that he used to be a Zen Master, 
but that was along time ago and he had forgotten about that. 
Early one morning a little boy approached the fisherman asking him for advice.
"Sir, my father would like me to help on the boat, but I am fearful of the ocean."
"Every time I get near it, I am desperately afraid. What should I do?"
The fisherman sat contemplating the boy's problem. 
Finally he spoke, 'My child, You have to learn to control your FEAR."
"No, that's not it!!!" He said interrupting himself. 
There was a long period of silence, 
and the boy was unsure if the fisherman had fallen asleep. 
Finally, he opened his eyes and spoke, "You have to learn to eliminate your FEAR,"
But quickly corrected himself again by yelling, "STRIKE THAT!!!"
This time there was an even longer silence 
and the boy sat and watched 
as the sun changed horizons
The boy thought the fisherman had forgotten about his problem
and was about to get up and leave when the fisherman spoke again, 
"You have to learn to destroy your FEAR."
But was quick to point out, "Oh, Lord no that's not it!!!"
"Neither do you need to learn to bury it," he added quickly 
and then was silent for a long time.
The boy sat with the fisherman until the evening started to creep up on them, 
The sun was about to kiss the ocean, giving the sky a tangerine haze.
The boy really needed to go Now!
As he got up the forgetful fisherman told him "STOP!"
"FEAR is a sickness that crawls inside of you and dies," said the fisherman.
"The SICKNESS grows," he continued.
"It penetrates,
infiltrates, 
your every being,
doing, 
        going, 
                  leaving you,
in a constant state of FEAR.
Making you its servant,
You need to learn to release your FEAR."
'Is that it?" the boy asked getting up to leave.
"Release?
I'm...
Not...
Sure...
Let me think about it for a little while," the forgetful fisherman replied.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Love Me

Love me. Le me know the ecstacy of your gentile touch. Let me feel the caress of that 
forbidden love, ever so gently stroking the most intimate areas of my body. Let me hear 
the sound of your voice, so warm and inviting. Whispering, reaching the hidden depths of 
my subconscious. Causing my outer shell to disappear into nothingness. Let me feel your 
soft touch rubbing against my body. Causing my flesh to tremble, to heat up, to turn into 
fire. To feel the knowledge of your burning desire.

Let me hear the breath of life, gently blowing in my ear. To cause a stir inside of me, that 
makes me hear the sound of music. Music so subtle that I cry from lonliness and need. 
Let me feel the warmth of your caress rubbing ever so gently upon my naked soul. Uniting 
the two, you and I, into a perfect union of flesh, blood, body, soul, heart and mind. Let me 
know that you are the ultimate in life and the ultimate in death. Inseparable by time and 
space. Always together, never apart. Making us one with each other for that precious 
moment in time that says, "We are one and the same."

For a moment, we gave one another, a part of each other that no one else can claim. Ours 
to cherish, just for us for as long as we can remember. Never giving away what we had for 
that precious moment in time. Shared by need and desire of exploring and finding, the 
mystery of body and soul.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Return

http://www.stumbleupon.com/su/9JdBTW/www.picsarus.com/H5C4DD.jpg/

Sunkissed memories,
caressing complection-
and the time stops at first sight.
The sun never forgets-
like memories are faded as dreams
and while you're perched upon the grassy hill,
overlooking that place you called home.
Overlooking every memory you had together,
seeing not all-
but more than you ever experienced.
Fate's arms reached out,
brought us together
and now after time has passed-
after others stomped on my doormat-
after your heart was tested-
we came back to each other-
what's meant to be 
does.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mornings' Wake Up Call

Morning has once again
crept into my room
its' purpose, as always
to rouse me from
my slumbering daze.
I close my eyes to its invasion
and dive deep beneath the covers
to snuggle, perhaps just moments longer
within their soothing warmth.
With mornings' unwelcome arrival
sunshine too, per Mother Natures decree
makes known its presence.
Against the ever constant, always loud
tick, tick, ticking of the clock
my room becomes brighter.
I must, once again it seems
unwillingly surrender myself
and rise, albeit begrudgingly
to face yet another day
and answer once again 
another mornings' wake up call.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lovers Locked

Days pass too quickly
But not when I'm with you
The hands of time are frozen
And that's all they will do

I don't know why the others
Choose to see the clock
For time does not exist between
A pair of lovers locked

As I hold you to my lips
I feel my world suspended
I do not wear a watch
To tell me time has ended


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Calculating Nowhere from the Middle of Tuesday.

I tripped over the middle, fell head-first into nowhere, I found life on my left side...

and declared it...

fantastic.


There was absolutely no way to figure us out, so I did the math and subtracted one smile
from ten kisses, in the end I bit my lip and shook my head, curls bouncing in the element
of confusion for I had come up...


with nothing.


I strung phrases over rainbows and headed out towards storms, here, his promises decided
me foolish, they counted the leftover tears that I had collected, they spoke of nothing
save the end of June, and I recalled how the marks that were left from midnight
confessions burned themselves with a grin as my voice dissipated into nowhere....

and my ankles became stuck...

somewhere...

towards the middle.


He hushed me when I screamed, the syllables of ten-thousand girls who all found him
devastating, and my eyes traced the patterns of his shadowed glances just so I would know
where to turn next.


One foot straight to the left, and he told me...


not.to.trip.


And I always found his lips more desirable when my toes sank, naked, into Tuesday's
sheets, for life presented herself more clearly when our legs twisted into...

nowhere...

and sunrise appeared in rainbows that seemed to drip honesty over half broken promises,
over half broken hearts that cut me when I couldn't find him...

anywhere...

except in the calculation of ten thousand smiles and one kiss that left me in the middle...

of him.







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 | |

~ (~) ~ ... "Another happy hour... !" ... ~ (~) ~

I desire as it is still-my quiet-longing as it is as well I believe my right to be as honest, yes to lust for it together with you from here to here on after, for peace; and as I do-as you do too I would presume — if you are able to look yourself to know it in the eyes of one another to be a certain struggle that is all-together one in the same — you'll see it too whether today you can bring yourself to fully conceive-it-or-not... ." (~) ~ ~ (~) "Yes today I can find no difference, except for on what that given day may be... or bring." (~) ~ ~ (~) "Because the more the merrier I used to say, spend spend spend spent, not to worry there's another paycheck on the way; but there's never enough when you truly want it or need I often-think... ! (~) ~ ~ (~) Because just as derelict I am as-much-fruitless from time to time as it is righteous, because moneys will-come-as-they go, it's Okay though, I truly don't mind that-it-came from- the-broken, and always-tired-back, yes this-simple and-ever driven-soul-that-I-bare; can dare; and so when I digress today I just move-to-terry... . (~) ~ ~ (~) Round and round and round we go again today whether working with a hangover or gritting my teeth with my worried mind watching the clock tick-tock-tick ticking-away-towards quitting-time, and a brighter hour; yes another happy hour... !" (~) ~ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ahJ6Kh8klM4


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Only the Good
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Easily and surely it's not a problem for a judge such as you to
find fault in from my perspective what is simply an observation 
Ok then I'll flip the script for you, can you handle only one side of 
of the story about our time shared together, it's a simple situation
Quite the looker you were, this much I can say for sure, such a body
you have possibly the world’s most beautiful breast
Kept me turned on night and day, kept me craving and lusting for you 
in so many ways twenty four seven 
My mind was never able to escape that desire and rest
Kind you were, sexy and sweet when you wanted to be and had a 
compassionate warm and giving heart of gold
My prayer for you theses days is that you recover the beauty which is 
yours by right of birth, and the light of your immortal soul
Find fault with my logic if you will; look for insult or poke your holes 
I really don't care what you choose to do but this time only the good 
was told.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

END OF AN ERA

It's only the start now
...a road yet unknown
At times the whisper of other steps
...sometimes we walk alone

The best start of our lives
May at times cry in sorrow
But even on our deadliest days
The sun will shine tomorrow.

So we must do our best
Whatever time may bring
And look beyond the winter chill
To taste the breath of spring.

Into each life will come
A time to start anew
A new start for each heart
As lively as morning dew.

Though the responsibilities of life are great
And palms are bowed so low
The cyclone of time will leave behind
The beauty of a rainbow.

Time will never take away
Our chance to start anew
It's only the start now
So the beautiful dreams can still come true.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Damage Will Always Be There

The Damage Will Always Be There


I cried,I bleed,And now my heart longer beats the same way it did before I meet you.My heart feel broken,i feel like a rag doll played with over and over again only to be thrown away.I miss your love but now your gone and my hearts ache the most it has ever.There are time's I wonder if  I have been lying to myself,I must be because my heart should fee lighter it should feel like a free winged bird but it not.The damage the cuts the sores they shall be with my from happy time to sad time because you put them there.You who I looked up to you never promised I know but it aches from every thought of you.How come how come I must be alone in this world? It sound selfish but I only want you back to be here beside me and tell me you love me and I'm doing a great job with everything.Why does it hurt to think of you?why does it pain me to want to be lose to anyone?why does everyone leave me behind when I need them the most?why am I so closed up with a stone wall full of hate surrounding my heart?I know it shouldn't be there but do you? In time the cut will heal and the sores shall vanish.But what about the feelings and the damage inflicted upon them will never leave.Yes it sounds so cliche yes you've heard it all before.But really and this is know this is said this is everything I know.The damage is there no matter how much it seems to have healed.

For my grandmother who i lost now 5 years ago Granny i miss you i wish you would have fought for us a little longer then you did.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

To Know This

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YqUsAHTUPTU&feature=related ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "First time I ever recognized Bipolar for what it is; I found-yes, it was me. Writing... precious-gift-honorable... the-antidote-fate; my-advocate" ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Bipolar--rushing-a trip, trip tripping-along-trip-trip tripping along-grappling whispering yea grumbling--gambling- groaning-the sounds; echoing--unholy banter. "Snickering-liar hell bent on-you-yea-ha; with- eager-intention-you yes, for-the duping... disaster, friend-yes--your-very-marrow!" Mollycoddler grieving-boisterous- gleaned, so-well-willing; eyes- yes-thieving-golden... resigned. Defined-Sunshine shining; quiet-by then-welcomed- clarity--then-yes-one- more-a day-of- relevance; revelation- equality, certain, a-peace; abiding. Lying-down on the- other-side-light-faith; coupling-how-then-the- drama grows-how... to- be patience. Arriving moments-visions- yes-sepia-tone-often-times- stricken-still yes-moreover; smitten, those-dying-days-- prayers... and so it exists to be filled- honor-chivalry, are-not-a farce never were-will; be! Wasted time-kills; opportunity, is but a jest; only one-moon, many- stages; time befriends-the-hand of grace- faith is willing-love, is open-hope, is honest. A newborns' freedom cries-as laughter-fills the- air-one hand affirms the other, washes it spotless. Good humor-always, brings the heart to tears; my only prayer for all of us, to-live in peace. "Imperfect was I, when God made me-incapable- without the Lord myself-yes... to-know-this, is to- love this-life, is all-it-was-intended to be!" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qujfdzLJPyU 'Indifference-yes time welcomes the journey, dancing shadows so they-jest, welcomed-the- provision-long wayside beaches-bumbling- bees-'round them buzzing-light; upon-the dawn-beyond... dancing shadows... !" 'Weakest-honesty open willing at best- wouldn't-dare daring, ever test them, time low is a journey-either way- I know; an-offering sweet... !" "So as well the way mid the ball; so as well it-is with-learning... ." http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZTKu-L1b--o


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 | |

Ghosts of South Dakota part 1

   	The location of the Spring Creek School was on a flat, nestled 
between the cliff on the north and the Little White River on the south.  The river 
flowed in from the northwest, circled to the south of the school about a quarter 
mile and wended it's way east departing to the northeast.  Though I never saw it 
in my day I imagine this was once a flood plain.  Yes, at one time this could 
easily have been the scene of flash floods.  The waters tumbling and sloshing 
their way across this insignificant piece of ground in a hurry to reach the exit.  
Time had slowed the waters and erosion had taken it's tole, leaving the west and 
south in twenty to thirty foot sharp sandy cliffs.  The ground sloped to the east 
leaving a two foot drop off.  A sandy graded road approached the large heavy duty 
bridge, crossed and continued on as a trail road.
	It's summer and the Little White River gently rolls from bend to bend.  
We are running back and forth across the bridge stopping now and then to lean 
over the rail and watch the Indian children splashing in the only deep spot.  It was 
first comers got the choice spot.  Big deal! Chest deep to a ten year old.
           We run off the bridge south.  The graded road crosses a big culvert 
allowing a small spring access to the river where it fans out at the point of entry.  
We run through the crystal liquid turning it into chocolate and leaving dents in the 
once smooth sand.  This is a child's paradise.  Sand so pure, soft and powdery 
warmed by the sun.  The deeper we dig the cooler the sand becomes as it is 
joined by the moisture below.
	Our mothers put limits on our water sports.  First: we had to wait an 
hour after the meal to get in the water.  Second: polio was a concern in our day 
and we didn't get to play as often as we thought we should.  Third: we were not 
allowed to swim unless our mothers were with us.  With the gardening, house 
keeping and canning, we were lucky if we got to swim two or three times a week.  
I guess that is why we spent most of our time on horseback.
	On the ridge north of the school stood a lookout tower.  In the long 
evenings we would be found always outside, either sitting on the steps, running 
up and down the fire escapes or in the front yard.  This was the only real green 
grass in the area.  It was fenced to keep cattle or horses from trampling it into the 
mirrored image of its surroundings.  This enclosure measured fifty by a hundred 
feet and was kept watered.  A large tree provided the only shade


Details | Prose Poetry | |

love ewe and blue

love ewe and blue 

aer rhyming words true
there is always inflection and poor attitude
limits of knowledge above snobbish refrains
trains run on time only in the movies
movies run on time only in a small town
there is very few movies shown on trains
blue can be an attitude blue can be a heart
love you can be used to start a heart apart from you
as you watch the blue southern train depart
from the blue stunted depot with the board walk floor
the little blue conductor yelling all aboard her
as the train takes the love and makes your attitude blue
soup mix tastes so wordy so blue so true and good
with a doubly heaping helping of a love ewe attitude


Details | Prose Poetry | |

~ Killing Time is Murder ~

~ Killing Time is Murder ~ Missing image ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~ ~ ~ ~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~~ Killing time is murder. ~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~ Sometimes too short it is! ~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~ Coffee in hand mitten slippers, ~~ ~ too and fro, oh the ebb and flow. ~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~ Gentle ride on Daddy's feet ~ ~~~~~ waltinz away! ~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~ A struggle, ~~~~ ~~~ though entire. ~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~ Nothing else to do. ~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~ Way better time ~ ~ is killing time. ~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~ Though, ~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~ friend cancer, ~ ~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~ is murder ~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Author notes ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~ e v e r y o n e 1 ~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Written for my Father and all those who suffer like he did, for those suffering with them. Was remembering Him today, like most every day. How much I love, miss him, how good he was to me, though suffering. As he always did try his best to love ... move to cherish life, respect everybody! Sometimes too short it is time! To suffer with him through it! Better time it was killing time ... suffering together! Though cancer, still it is ... murder! Love: ~ James ~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


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 | |

Honesty And Woman

I learned my lesson the last time 
Only answering the questions 
That I knew would be safe 

Viewing herself in the mirror 
She said, how old do I look 
It was a trick question 

I kept remembering 
The last time she asked me 
If she looked fat in a dress


Details | Prose Poetry | |

TIME PASSES ON

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

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

DISILLUSIONMENT

Here, stunned, sit I, Illusions fading
reality, not really, changing
veil removed from beguiled eyes
avoiding all the masses cries;
discovered I a plot so cold
the mission now it shall unfold
dark Sirius shadows golden orb
sinister beings our secrets probe
within the deepest realms of Earth
dark web lurking no time for mirth
Light to bring, expose dark truth
of shadow realm 'neath radar lurks
of men corrupt who'd rule the world
subject Adam into their fold
no longer cloaked in sheepskin white
these Wolves plot evil in the night 
it's time for us to make a fuss
lest, while Shepherd sleeps, they ravage us...


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 | |

~ (~) ~ Two Times One Time Three Times More; Four Times a Sailor... . ~ (~) ~

~ (~) Time bold presses on... . (~) ~ ~ (~) Bartering two times one time three times more; four times a sailor, given this I've given nothing, just about taken everything hope lost crying-dying perfection where is it, except dwelling transfixed, what is it that I carry now friend... ? (~) ~ ~ (~) Nothing for you, time, it run out on me... left me with the baggage, all that I own, I didn't accept you give you feared you wouldn't couldn't submit to your patient hand offer you my heart... ! (~) ~ ~ (~) The ground it comes up fast, rushing raging-time tick tock tick tick tick tock, tick. (~) ~ ~ (~) Knowing nothing from nowhere time like fly's on the wall it here's everything, sees... . (~) ~ ~ (~) Good-is God evolving-freely with-us-openly vibrantly... . (~) ~ ~ (~) Two times one time three times more; four times a sailor... . (~) ~ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KwsvqVmFV6Y&feature=related


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Almost Time

It’s been a while since you were announced
It’s nearly time for you to arrive
I’m about to see you enter into life
A life I helped to create
The time I’ve known about you
Seems to have passed too quickly
And now before I’ve realized it
You’re about to be born
For it’s almost time
It’s almost time to meet you
To teach you what little I know
And to learn far more from you 
Than you’ll ever know
Where have these last months gone
I haven’t had time to learn
The many things I should
I haven’t had time to forget about myself
For the sake of someone else
My God, it’s almost time
To let go of these feelings
I haven’t yet understood
To be flooded with new ones
When I first see your face
It’s so strange and new
To love someone so much
That I haven’t even met
I can’t say how your touch is going to feel
Or how you will change my life
I only know it’s almost time
It’s almost time to try

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit
http://www.reverbnation.com/#/mikehamill


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Who Cares

At 7:12 am 
The sound of footsteps
Were always the same
Neither heavy nor light
As they made a scuffing sound
Shuffling by the window
Along with the sound
Of a large dog’s nails
Clicking on the ground

This particular morning
There were some new sounds 
The sound of rain
Falling heavily on an open umbrella
And the splish-splash of feet
Walking down a wet street
A little more quickly than normal
Along with the sound of car tires
Splattering down a wet road
On the way to somewhere
Or maybe coming back 
From someplace else

Checking the clock
He realized it was almost time
To get out of bed 
And get ready for work
Besides 
There was nothing else to hear
Because at 7:15
Everything seemed to quiet down
Until sometime after 12:27

Sometimes he wondered
If his friends were right
Maybe he was 
Slightly obsessed with time
But at 8:38… who cares?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

You Were There

You, you were there for me
You, you showed what life could be
Though time was short
Words were wise
The love ran deep
And you were there for me
You played like a child
When the time was right
Knew when to cuddle 
And give some space
Your eyes spoke in ways
Words never could
If I needed help
I knew you always would
And you, you were there for me
You, you showed what life could be
You never questioned why
Yet always answered well
Had a way of making me tell
Getting me to face
What I tried to hide
You always knew
What I felt inside
Though it’s harder now
I know you still do
Though you had to go
And wherever you are
Time will never erase
That you, you were there for me
The love ran deep
Words were wise
And you, you were there for me


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The half face

That Saturday, 
Was very much like 
any other Saturday for me, 
wasting myself onto some useless news 
in unusual heat of Delhi at this time of year on my 
own route, sitting in front on the right lane of bus on way to 
college, killing the morning, unlike loosing on the rear far from ‘crowd’ 
I always love to ‘hate’, until a GIRL came from nowhere and sat very next to me. 



I rose my 
Head for less to a 
Second before going onto 
the paper which was all over me, 
just able to see her black coat of fur, a diary 
in her hand, a face similar to a lonely canvas & as lifeless 
as a piece of sand, half long hairs lean back with eyes black before 
bright,’unwillingly’ sad looking lost in this air searching her existence in silence. 








Refraining 
her presence, I 
was calm telling myself 
not to see the tears coming out 
from her heart may be because eyes were 
too dry to feel the grief somewhere hidden on those 
messages of her mobile, breaking her before me, I wanted 
to assure her, to help her but I was no one to her but a ‘complete stranger’. 




She looked 
towards me, when 
I was watching the road 
after my window and went into 
her diary the moment I turned to see her 
face which was only half seen from the place I was 
held , feeling as if the time is dead and things stood still, waiting 
for me to say few words to her or telling her to gather herself far from me. 






She stood 
up with her diary 
and before I could stop 
or let her go, she walked away, 
leaving the bus, the ‘loneliness’ she was in, 
leaving her ‘tears’ on me, walking to something she 
needs to reach when I wanted to run away from her, I wanted 
to run to her but failed in both, I now remembers only ‘THE HALF FACE’. 
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………by VG!! 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

~ (~) ~ Answering Hate (Part #1 of 5) ~ (~) ~

 Thank you so much for your honesty friend. I paused and took some time with your
statements to me to ponder on it. Yes I have these problems that are always rising up
within me from time to time. The truth is I believe that I need all the help that I can
get. Because my soul is tortured as well by them. I'm glad you were patient enough to read
anyway. Takes a lot of strength and courage to be as honest as you have been, I appreciate
it. It reminded me, that relying on myself alone, and remaining alone with these things
makes it all the more harder for me to remain honest with myself. As you have so plainly
been with me so again I thank you. I just get so afraid sometimes to be this way. But I
feel that honestly it is a true strength that you have. You I feel are truly blessed.
Gifted with this boldness of heart. You carry it well. I feel it is the most precious and
there is no truer strength lying within you. If I were you, well I would feel blessed and
encouraged by it truly... . As for what was stated in the writing it was for me a simple
message. 

Though I can tell you myself it made my belly uncomfortable too. When I heard... saw it
for myself for the first time. Made me cry... . Because I truly don't want myself to feel
it anymore than is necessary, being reminded today what it truly means to be like this. As
I considered and still keep trying to grow to know through it how I have in turn been
brought to yield it myself every time I saw for myself my own hate. You know it makes me
more and even more afraid. Because I've been like this in one form or the other my whole
life. I probably always will be without some help, I figure that when I heard this message
first, it rose within me in this greater form. I didn't like it either at all. Made me run
to something more though and today I am feeling a little, sometimes quite better the more
I am moved away from it. Because I also found that for myself, I wanted more than just
this hate and living alone with it. And through hearing the truth of it, I knew that I
alone could not stop it from rising up from within me... . 

Because I don't truly enjoy feeling sick to my tummy like this. It has been for me this
way for a long time and I am finding that it can in its reality surely kill me, because
for myself I let it consume me. 





http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JnKoAEs65Pg


Details | Prose Poetry | |

(~) Got to eat... . (~)


 
(~) Yes, hungering is an ache within yes? (~)

(~) Haunting it is. (~)

(~) Haunts from right within so badly, it haunts you straight from the soul. Bold it is, hunts you down, time, and 
again. (~)

(~) Sometimes kills one, all by its self — without me searching for something else — its why I like fishing with a 
Friend. I can lay back, take the time to relax more, maintain a greater level of focus and energy, not getting as 
frustrated... . (~)

(~) Still takes about the same time as hunting, tracking, I've done this too, but when I'm with a patient Friend, 
(who can remind me to be patient) there's more, than one searching — and my spirits grow higher, and even 
higher. We can talk passing the time together waiting for a fish to bite — and I'm not searching, desiring for my 
fulfillment all alone... ! (~) 

(~) Hey! Thank you Friend for You're helping me ponder this... You're so generous. (~)

~ Love ~ James ~


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Tragedy---for Jon

Lost? 
Found. 
Never has life's cruel temper dealt its deceiving hand as this day 
Lost-found in a place, living know not. 
Kinship friendship - words, verbiage to describe mortal bonds 
While those of the soul grasp bonds endless and dimensionless 
Youth is but a stage of dying 
Time cruel to its very essence. Time blows through us all as our sight through glass 
Its dark fingers paint our walls and carry us to our HOLMES 
Its cruelty is its existence. Defining agony, depriving experience 
Youth felt emotion lost through existence 
Found youth soul existence beyond comprehension 
Youth to us all? Youth has been lost but found where else 
But where time confronts us all. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Desert Edge (part two)

On comes a traveler from lands that I have not wandered only visited
Bringing with him memories of the pains I have borne through my life
Like the desert whose dunes I dared only once to climb when youth held me fast
A fleeting grasp, a tentative hold that was as it must be for us all I have come to see
In those valleys of sand where the sun drank from my body ravenously to crack my skin
I saw only once the whispering vision of life in the distance
Shimmering in the heat of the burning sands stood an oasis many miles deeper
So I set out with that vision hardly in my mind across the desert
Over mountainous dunes and into abyssal valleys with the sun raking my back
I walked and then I crawled when my feet became blistered stumps rubbed raw
I crawled until my hands and knees bled
I crawled until I held my head high no longer
Still I wandered, still I moved despite the sand choking my eyes closed
I crawled my body burned and my eyes blinded by sun and sand
Only to find my way back to this shack on the Desert’s edge
My journey had betrayed me I believed
My journey had twisted me all around I thought
Until today when came a wanderer through the desert forge
To sit down and rest with heavy sigh and cloud of slowly settling sands

On his shoulder sat a grey old owl watching me silently with eyes of tired wisdom
In his arms the man carried his second friend a satyr with ivory pipes to match his horns
I nodded in quiet solitude rocking back and forth in my old wooden chair

So it was that we listened to the gentle creaking of the wood
Listened to thunder rolling in off the great Blue Divide
Listened to wind shushing through the leaves of Heaven’s Gate
Felt the heat wafting over us from the Desert’s edge

Neither of we two speaking, only listening until at long last with the sun beginning to set
The satyr stirred just enough to lift the pipes to his lips and then to play
A hauntingly sweet song of blissful sorrow like age-old memories of lost youth
And we listened to him play his song long into the night
Until the stars failed to shine and the curtain of day touched the veil of dreams

“Time to leave, time to go, time to say farewell
For there are roads still to travel and I have yet much to see
And so long a way to go,” he said with a quiet voice of strength


Details | Prose Poetry | |

New Year of Life

Wow! How time flies so quickly! A moment ago 
life had just begun and now it is rushing away 
eager to get somewhere.

Will the year bring happiness and joy?
Will this year renew? I wish it could; you may 
never know.

There is a saying from Narcotics Anonymous, " Take 
one day at a time". I can't take one day
at a time because I may never know what 
can happen in that one day. So, I try to live one 
moment at a tiime.

Time is precious in every moment of life; if only I can 
truly believe that. A moment is like one breath
of life that captivates the Soul, releasing energy
that is within.

Most people have New Year resolutions. My New Year 
resolution is to live one moment at a time and to let life
take its place wherever it may go to.
I hope this year brings me to a place where my Soul
may breathe freely and guide me through time.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Dear Friend

As the year thunders on the autumn day's begin to get shorter the nights are early,
My old dog stretches out by a blazing log fire only turning over when he's too hot,
Arthritis is slowing him down his hips are so sore he walks very slowly with a limp,
Soon it will be time to take him out on grassy rich heaths for the very last time.
 
Although the weather for autumn is calm it is the damp air that makes the pain worse,
Outside he lays watching spiders form radiated circles on every single bush and twig,
And at the silken threads on every blade of grass and he barks and sniffs so quietly,
His mood is solemn but calm, he is in a daze and forgets his way back to the garden.

We walked along forest meadows running chasing sticks and shadows barking with joy,
He would bound up to some lovely hedges or soft willow plots and rolled in the grass,
Smoke from autumns bonfires has a smell that reminds me of wonderful golden sunsets,
Now it will remind me of loneliness my faithful old friend running in a dog heaven.

By my log fire my dogs eyes are brown and pleading there are tears in the corners,
He doesn't understand that he is old and cannot do the things he always loved to do,
A haunting stare asking me to help him because you're my dad will you make me better,
Next day I take him out for the very last time I walk into the vets and I break down.

My hands deep in my pockets I walk where we always walked and soon it will be winter,
Standing and watching the departure of numbers of birds that have shared our summer,
The Curlews, Sandpipers, Snipes and Bean goose fly across the sky but my joy has gone,
Norway thrush's arrive but where is my dear old friend we watched the seasons together.

The Fern-owls, dotterals, swallows and some of the plovers used bid us a last goodbye,
Today go the fly catchers, white throats, warblers, wheat ears and hardy red sparrows.
Gardens show us autumnal flowers crocuses, autumnal snowflakes fall on meadow saffron,
Everything is going and saying goodbye I turn into the wind, tears roll down my cheeks.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Chronicles of Love


In the Chronicles of time our love 
is written like a fine wine aged
with time.

A lineage of passion and adoration,
of cooing and wooing of love we
both hold near and dear.

It is the story of the dame and the sir.
A story of love and passion with no
cure that will forever endure.

Entries where snow thawed in the
moments of fire and desire.
Where eyes suspend in a trance
by agenda glance.

Where lips hunger for the soft yet subtle
brush of the ones lips they adore to wear.
Rising blush upon our cheeks reminds
us of the adrenal rush.

Our heart beats like a lone drummer pounding
to clone one another’s anticipation.
For your embraces, there is no compensation.

I want to hide between your shoulders
away from the view of the world.
Lost in the depths of your love and strong embrace.

Our love is written in the sage Chronicles 
of time of two lovers like fine wine,
aged by time.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

This Life

I lived this life my own way.
What else is left to say?
Now it's Judgement Day!

I misused this life He made.
It's time for God's fist to raise!
Was it worth the price paid?

Is the day of recompense truly here?
Or is this just a horrible nightmare?
No, it's really happening I fear.

Everyone hysterical and unstrung.
The wrath of God has begun...
payback for sinful things done.

The sky is beginning to shake.
I hear the sounds of a mighty earthquake.
God's Blue Prints are taking shape...

roaring thunder like crashing ocean waves...
people scattering fleeing into caves.
Oh My God! Is it too late to be saved?


Milton L. Delgado
March 5, 2008


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Invisible Man 14

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 goes behind the stores looking for some food, by then he has
had enough the bitterness and hate. He thinks if he has happy thoughts he will be happy.

It seems its always a warm spring day when I walk with you down my memory lane,
I remember always holding hands with you as we smile and walk down there again,
The sun is shining brightly with flowers budding along the pathways of the past,
Pointing out little birds and beautiful wild flowers are my memories that last,
No clouds dare to mar the sun's watery glow, which melts into skies of soft blue,
No shadows would dare to mask the sun when I'm walking back in time with you,
From those long ago golden times I remember only happiness and never any tears,
Those were the most beautiful days of my life, the sweetest of all my many years,
For a short while I forget my loneliness the dreadful loss the hurting and the pain,
It’s always spring and happiness when we hold hands skipping down old memory lane.

Thinking of the past makes him so very sad, sadness that comes from deep within,
A wrenching passion that makes him lower his head into his coat to hide his warm,
tears that uncontrollably drip from his gaunt cheeks and splash on his ruined shoes.

Nasty bullying men taunting him and pointing out what he already knows that he is a
cancer on society that he stinks worse than the garbage he rummages through and would
better off dead.He shuffles past these people and leans on a wall Invisible sobs loudly he can't stop.
All the pain and constant sadness is too much so he goes to a supermarket and buys some,
cheap booze to ease the pain. He queues with his bottle of cheap vodka his face still wet
with tears. Everyone moves from his queue to another one Invisible cannot get out of the
shop quick enough. He sits on a bench in the shopping center and begins to drink.
The more he drinks the quieter the taunts are. Darkness hides him in neon light his sadness
is now bearable.He sits with his bottle between his legs and just stares at the floor and
as the booze disappears so does Invisible.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

the whispering call

the whispering call
----------------

a moment alone is not wasted
it is however, an opportunity
to savor the life i've tasted
a life and love so free

this is a time to quietly ponder
the future, present, and past
amid these many thoughts i wander
seeking comfort in a life lived to fast
"they" say that i should not be alone at all
that i will find within my own destruction
but alone i hear best the whispering call
to express my mind with my hearts construction

with pen in hand i follow the thouoght
writing it down i exorsize my despair
qualified by time and the pain it has brought
to buide myself through truths laid bare


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Escape

Pizza boxes line the floor and litter my recent calls,
I don’t know the time of day or the last time I ventured outdoors.
Lost in my own worthless abyss, drowning in my thoughts,
Look at this mess you’ve caused.

I’ve watched so much TV that my eyes literally feel square,
So detached from reality, I question if I truly care.
I haven’t brushed my teeth for a week or so much as styled my hair,
Instead I’ve sat cursing God for ignoring my prayers.

I look at my ‘friends’ and try to broach the subject, knowing this effort’s in vain.
I talk from the depths of my heart, uttering unspoken truths, revealing the weight of my pain.
And I look to their faces, try to fix their gaze, but I know they have nothing to say.
So I wallow in self pity, shutting out the world, resisting the urge to escape.

I reach to you in desperation, in a plea for an alternative resolution.
The nastiness I provoke plunges me deeper in confusion:
You tell me to get on with my life, that my love is a delusion.
I no longer know what I’m doing.

I take an open-top bus ride around the place I call home
And don’t even recognise the ‘places of interest’ I’m shown.
I’m oblivious to the tour guide and his incessant drone – 
I spend my journey looking expectantly at my phone.

Burdened by the weight, of the misdemeanours and mistakes
That took me to this place, through a pointless, perpetual chase;
Engulfed by the bitter taste, of the agony I must embrace,
I spread my wings wide and escape.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Time and the lack of time

Today the time creeps slowly from the east to the west; across the grey heavy sky. 
Forty something is weighing on my mind, keeping me boggled down with guilt at my 
lack of accomplishments on this short journey. 
We call life, breathe in and breathe out. The world judges us
by exterior appearances and the amount of money we have in the bank. 
Time ticks and the pendulum swings, whether we are standing still or not. 
The journey and path we take, determines how our time will end.  
Rain is eminent upon the earth and the clouds have brought a cool crispness to the air.  
My thoughts still betray; second guessing my life's journey.  
Now is all I really have, time to focus on the goal and get started.  
Note to self: forgive yourself! God has already.

Time and the lack of time


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Volcanic

Heartburn; sweaty palms and head;
veins popping up from great tension; total
inside; it is piling and piling up.

Lava, a mixture of anger and disgust, sits
there and waits, till it comes to a boil. All this 
pain stirs and stir like a pot of sauce that 
continues to boil, and then starts to spit at you.

From the bottom it is rising; I'm choking. It is 
suffocating my world; whatever is left. It 
grows and grows until it reaches the top of my Soul's
height and explodes like a suicidal bomber that only
explodes him and not others.

This is my Soul...An enormous and dangerous
volcano that destroys my being, time and time agin.

Life is dormant sometimes, when the blood red boiling
lava cools down and turns black. At times, when the
volcano awakes, I don't know how to cool it down;
I guess when someone throws in some cool refreshing 
waters then I don't suffocate.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

English Garden

I have found the treasure
that lies at the Rainbow's end;
surrounded by Sweet William, for-get-me knots,
and crimson shades of velvet rose.

Near the cottage of old where I was young,
the quaint charm of the English garden.
Where time has not weathered with due harm,
swirls of hued asters still in the brisk fresh air.

Moments spent dancing with cupid in midst
of a sunny afternoon.
Seconds where dreams danced on the moon,
sweet perfume floats by to wisp away my breath.
Up ahead mine eyes view the grassy slopes
where a thousand of narcissus bloom.

I watch them sway the day away tossing 
their sweet perfume to the winds.
Wicker seats and ivory benches upon I sit and muse.
The soul cannot thrive in the absence of a garden,
a rose plot, fringed pool and serenity.

Burn the sage, the leaves of rose and wintergreen
Light the candles in the middle of the afternoon.
From within my center core I breathe for more of this
paradise near heavens view.

Sweet surrender to growing things, cupids chimes in
melody rings, for here is a heavenly peace that mirrors
my thirsty soul.


My x4 Great Grandmother was from England a Duchess but she chose to marry my X4 Great
Grandfather and lost her inheritance and rights for neglecting the wishes of the family in
England. He was a Captain of the sea and brought many to the American shores of Mass. In
reading and studying, I found she loved to write of the sea and those things she cherished
from England and growing up, from memoires, she has touched my muse and from time to time,
I let her speak of such cherished beautiful things.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

~ (~) ~ ""Hold On!"" ~ (~) ~ (Part #1 of 4) ~ (~) ~

Tender tales tall tell timely in earnest the fervency... divinity relevancy, reality of the story. Stars shine bright cast their beauty liberally, sheen's of glassy rays of overt light sparkle freely in their delight. Under the moon laughter... fills the night. Swallows in their benignity... wade about puff up full and billow... shadow's in their whimsy way, cast their welcoming in the warming, as the weeping tree weeps tears full as cool pool shallows of crystal rock and alabaster sands promote their gentle fondness upon the pond floor. Kindred the swallows in their promise, beauty-benignity... in-the moonlight they are one with love, and running felicitous ... touched by the union follows closely the dove ... . Divinity-has found a home. Liberty residing evolving evermore-abounding well beside desire. The heart makes haste. Peace stakes its claim in faith, in the Son's glorious arrival, abandon, absolution, return. Cast about in the open gesture, blowing free in the ease of the wind growing abundantly like the humming bird sipping on wild honey dribbling off the bees nests fresh in the rising Summer Sun... . Splashing onto dew drops glistening as you know they always do lying upon lilac flower petals, dandelions growing even more elaborate carried along with the blueberry cakes popcorn and soda I've just consumed... . Yes mid the dance of the weeds love, is a gift, of life. Given perfect union, form, fashioning, purpose. Advancing onward outward-upward throughout all within all around us surrounding us as it grows. And hearing the sweetness of its cry. All in flight... birds-come fluff up billow grow full make their refuge-mid His wake... ! God's Joy, illustrious welcome lay anew under the sky's elucidated everywhere and there, peace, is here... every way and lea way dancing in and between the light, and as for now... time lye still... . Is thrown about and back again, time and again everywhere asunder, and I-feel truly He's saying to all of us... as again He states this to me... "Take the time... friend... "Hold on"". "I've got you... ." "Everything... will be all right... !" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kl-VCHzS1So&feature=related


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I miss you......

22nd Sept 2008 -  the day i will never forget .
U parted with me and broke the friendship forever....
U will never know how i felt that day- 
my world ended,nothing else i could say.
it was easy for you to part ways
but how could i ? in my little world you are like sun's rays......
spreading joy n happiness in my lyf,
i alwayz thought how can God make a friend like you ?
full of spirit, fun-loving , caring n true...
who can hold his tears n still make me smile
holding my hands n walk miles 
not knowing the destination nor the place
but with the intention of bringing the smile back on my face 
everytime u called me sweetheart
you are the best friend in the world, i thought,
those pranks n jokes when i was down,
the way u teased me when i frowned;
it was always fun whenever u talked,
those long night chats , how can i forgot?
those silly jokes when i was sad
calling me an alien will make you glad
those bday surprises n proposals midnight...
remember those discussions n silly fight?
life was all fun when you were their
i had a reason 2 live again - for the way you cared 
never in my dreams i thought you willl leave me alone,
still cant forget those last words on phone....
bt now you split , winter has come in my life again,
never will i get back those moments spent with you, 
for the time we spent together was very few;
how i wish those time to return back-
you calling me again - stupid , duffer , bitch n crack
i still dont believe i am no more in ur life again.....
sometimes i think did you play a game ?
but i know you so well with the few time we spent together,
what made you take that decision i know dear.
still my heart wishes for your company,
you know that i luv u honey.....
why cant those sweet moments come again?
why cant we be friends again?
words can never define the feelng i have for you
i can just put it as 'i miss you' 
hey dear i will wait for the time till we meet again
n you say me 'oh dear! i luv you' once again


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Harsh Reality Vol.II

They Say It ain't what you say but how you say it
so tell me, how do you get across the truth knowing
how people are gonna look at you after the moment
it's spoken. I mean people hate it but love it so 
addictive like 2nd hand smoking me, I'm like a
sponge when it comes to knowledge yeah I'm 
still soaking my man got his life taking away from
him before his time and for me dat was like a wake up call
but I've learned never mind the good times how you gone
react when things hit rock bottom, can you still stand tall
It's hard doing right when every things gone wrong
how you goin catch dat hailmary pass when you outta bounds
life ain't nothin but a choice of who you goin stay loyal to
Your Lord & Savior, or ya homeboys ya know them niggaz
dat always held you down. What's reality for me?
Knowing at the wrong place or wrong time I could leave
this world and my seed would be fatherless, but looking 
out my scope with all the snakes & rats I encountered 
its hard to see who's the real target and yeah I'm 
Holy so I got gifted hands like Ben Carson, and as a black man
I'm only trying to reach what we call freedom and man can't 
live off bread alone so for my son's sake the holy scriptures
I gotta continue to feed him. So if this ain't harsh reality
somebody tell me, whats the fate of another lost soul,
just another statistic to the streets that came from 
an unstable home


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Gentleman

On a cold misty morning an old man had some things to do but they could wait,
Taking his walking stick and dressing for a damp cold morning he began his day,
He stopped at his old florist every day and bought a flower he always sniffed it,
He was a a kind and loving man he walks on sticks his hair as grey as the day.

The shop next door a sweetshop and as always he ordered a packet of barley sugar,
Popping one in his mouth it was an orange spaceship and it took him back in time,
A time when all was good no worries or responsibilities a time never to be returned,
This gentleman had to hurry a little as he was running late the bus waited for him.

As he made this journey everyday we thought it might be interesting so we waited,
He got off the bus at its terminal stop the driver and conductor always shook hands,
As the old man wandered down the road there was the sharp tap from his old stick,
Then the tapping noise disappeared as he walked across some of the well cut grass.

The gentleman made his way to the town cemetery carefully walking round the graves,
He knelt down with the aid of his stick then planted his single rose on the grave,
There were hundred's of perished flowers all over his plot he stood up to go home.
We could hear the tapping of his stick again as he now walked on the concrete path.

The man in charge was sweeping leaves so we walked over to him and asked the story,
He was fighting in the war and spent thee years in these rat infested fighting fields,
He was in the Bangalor Torpedoes behind enemy lines right up to the end of fighting,
When he finally mad it back to England he was told his family died in the Blitz

Since all those years ago he has put a rose down on the plots and never missed a day,
His loved and dear family to him are always listening to his news and odds and ends,
There is something else that not many people are aware it's written on his own grave,
This sad very brave man held the Victoria Cross,when I pass the cemetery I lift my hat.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

~ (~) ~ If You Will ~ (~) ~ (Part #1 of 2) ~ (~) ~

~ (~) There was this poll, it stated would you rather be informed of your punctuation mistakes publicly or through private message with the helper of your punctuation mistakes or yes maybe even not... . (~) ~ ~ (~) My answer: (~) ~ ~ (~) Out of the choices I voted openly yes... . Here's why... ! (~) ~ ~ (~) How can I grow individually if I deny the help in doing so whether it offered openly or as I have found from time to time, a bit covertly, even furthermore or entirely IF YOU WILL... . (~) ~ ~ (~) Gives me as well if not just for the punctuation, or grammar, use of metaphor, any thing in regards to such. Such it is for me when I write, wish to learn and grow into being a being, writer EQUAL human child of God, that strives to be (H)onest, ((O))pen heart mind body, soul, to be growing ever more (((W)))illing-in these-strivings... . (~) ~ ~ (~) Great poll friend... . (~) ~ ~ (~) It Also helps me to offer the reasoning as to why the punctuation's or metaphor or grammar from time to time was so presented as it was in what the person commenting has offered with the said suggestions for me one themselves as they were presented... . (~) ~ ~ (~) Helping the reader FOR the next time to read if they so choose or if you will or might just stumble upon, through looking at the comments themselves. So they know as well the reasoning, denial, of the suggestion by the write and why, or the acceptance of it, or if you would consider even furthermore, both parties coming to an equal compromise PEACEFULLY BOTH GROWING TOGETHER... . (~) (~) ~Thereby it being open or not open as a suggestion, the way that it is handled by both parties can be viewed and everybody as well has the opportunity to grow furthermore if they so choose... . (~) ~ ~ (~) As I stated above I have no problem with receiving an offering, denial, no matter what it may be, it all teaches, in many ways myself, them or another if open to it... . (~) ~ ' ~ (~) Thank you for the poll friend... . (~) ~ ~ (~) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T2NEU6Xf7lM (~) ~


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 | |

~ (~) ~ ""Hold On!"" ~ (~) ~ (Part #3 of 4) ~ (~) ~

The generous character-carried-by them good-old-girls-and boys down-home country-copper- roof-all filled-up-silos-wheat-turbines waiting ready outside the barn deer-skins pegged down low the greater-story askant-of curiosity carrying the pureness of a child as to why... . Smoked-up hickory-honey-bubbling bacon saged-up getta-gingerly-popping in the grease in the skillets over the steadily-flaming-logs and-built-up-kindling ... . Humbly growing up little farm-houses-rock streams-made by-the freedom-of-the-patient hand-Bibles-on the-table in every-dwelling-place blessings of praise-that really gooey gooey fudge-brewing slow... so-slow. Cooked-up-apple and peach a plethora of assortments of berry pies cooling their lively smells lifting up-and-drifting-about the grassy timber woods and hills in every available-window-sill home made-ice-cream sweet-taffy-candy-moonlit-walks-with a real good friend-crawdad hunting with my-Pa and Uncles cousins and Brother Sisters-Grand-Pa... . Stars parading along on by with the sky's Moon-hovering-above casting the morning-stars-gentle, and-somewhat- kinder reflection on-the-slumbering-land of crawler's... . Our flashlights lights perusing cast-all-about searching-for-them... junker autos rumbling and rolling off one distant-street-corner-easy childhood-days-rising up to greet-you laying-down weighing in the balance-as the tender moments... ease-on-by. Time my only vestige welcomed salvation, greater my safety-grace happily promenades- about-the fringe-of the-day... . They ride-their-way-along-enchanted carried along churning away-by the glimmering-crystal-streams motivated by-the-chipper woodland-winds... . My faith, in-its relevance, emancipates. Fragile, honest... willing... no time for resentment-innocence runs free now merrily skipping with me across the meadow. Gracious time the noble gesture freedom the-patient-journey-sown-of-humble yes the truest divinity as patient-just yes-the devotion for all-through grace-made-open-my hope remains willing-white cotton clouds captured in their lea way dancing two and fro remind me even-more so... . "Kill them with the virtues' of kindness" as my Father always said. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x6rYPHmSzcE&feature=related


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Night Watchman

When the night falls
And the moon is up high,
You can be rest assured the
Night watchman will be stopping by.

As he does each and every night
When we all go to bed
This is at a time when our comfort
Is most needed so we can rest our heads.

After a long hard days work
After a busy and stressful day,
Whatever the case may be
The night watchman is here to stay.

His role is the greatest of all
His position no man can hold
He’ll never fault at his duties
He watches over all both young and old.

As we go about our daily lives
Day after day night after night
The night watchman is always working
At any given time not once losing sight.

Of every man, woman and child
On any given day as they each come anew
No, he’s not alone he has an army
Of angels as his crew.

Keeping tabs on everyone and everything
Even creatures great and small,
There’s no such thing as out of sight
When the night watchman is on call.

So no matter who, where or what we are
Even if a word is never to be spoken
The night watchman’s eyes and ears
For you and I will always be open.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

~ Cry of the Muse ~

Of-gentle beginning-and tender song ... ! That we would gratify love in its truest affection. Stand stead fast- uphold it yield to no other-duty ... ! To-have our-souls' so-identified-unified coexisting- exclusively-mid-this ... . To-live, would I die to give the measure of my-soul- just-to-have this ... once ... ! So place me within, make me the-essence of-the-art- lay me down carry me off- as I would be a child lost amid the grandeur- of its promise ... ! Allow this ink to consume us be the genuine eminence, what we reach-for through the humble virtue, heart-of this quill ... ! So all may view soar higher, and even higher still. Be captured, taken within deep- far and away beyond- the bitter part of this world, into the true benignity, flourishing and forever evolving, amid themselves ... ! Yes help me build me up, mold me-yes- come find me ... ! Trick me friend by slight of hand bend me- yes break me down shatter me again, and again truly I care-not ... ! Fill this paper in-its preparedness ... innocence ... verity, hope ... with the sweet passion elation of our souls ... ! Yes carry me before this-vision ... ! Restrain me-not ... . Set our-soul-free ... ! Please ... ? That we may gratify love-uphold it. Yes yield-then ... only-beauty ... ! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Author notes Written to the (Braveheart) theme By: Enya The expression of this poem was written from within the greater depths, of my soul. It was a cry of my muse. The passion beside which I stand and the hope through which I write. The joy we both carry for the other, and peace and faith in each other, in which we abide. Before this writing my muse had taken a vacation. So willing, I am open to suggestion. ~ Thank you for reading this piece of my work ... God bless you ... (The reason that there are Hyphens "so many of them") is because I have a computer that speaks them with a faster and slower and higher and lower pitch of voice, giving a certain kind of ebb-and-flow to the work with a softer more fervent and realistic and consistent tone, when I use the hyphens and other punctuation in the certain places that I do, when in telling it what to do. Allowing it to speak in even a moderate voice if I choose. It sounds very free flowing when I hear it, and I can only hope that you will be able to here it in the same way. Thank you for reading and God bless you ... ~


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Death in a Parking Lot

Parking lots are creepy and desolate in the dark,
without fluorescent lights, 
no one can remember where they parked,
A person may roam around for hours or click 
on their alarm.
At Christmas time parking lots are synonymous
to Christmas Tree Farms,
A death can easily happen in the midle of the maze,
when attendants are not looking,
People can sneak in and out of the gates,
rummaging for all sorts of goodies to take,
If someone is unaware they can 
overpower him/her in a choke hold,
strangling the person until they are
stone cold,
In the twinkling of an eye a family 
can suffer a loss,
The owners and corporations may try
to cover up the heinous crime,
by slinging mud and slime,
But in due time unsolved mysteries
eventually shine.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Cardinal Silence




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

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

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

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

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

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

Cardinal silence whispers of
mankinds fall.

Someone stop the silence
before it is too late.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

the power of our desperation


the power of our desperation
----------------------------

when the river of time is choked with debris
and i can no longer sail against the tide
i must clear the way before me
for stopping is a backward ride

i am a ship with a fool at the wheel
a captain by default, not merit
finding it hard to keep an even keel
but learning daily a little bit

when life is at it's grimmest low
and the future looks dark indeed
that is a chance to grow
to find the strength that we need

the time comes when it seems
that we can not move ahead as we planned
maybe we're following phantoms or dreams
and not taking time to understand

the more we want something the harder we try
though we don't always know what we need
it's never enough ju8st to get by
we must have goals, and strive to succeed

when the want and the need are the same
and failure is not a choice at all
then burns brightest the flame
heaqrts commit and spiorits stand tall

this is the power of our desperation
an addicts end to avert
we need not cling to justification
or suffer old pains that still hurt

with an honest and fearless point of view
we can see deeper and clearer the truth
with work we can regain and renew
the joy of life from our youth


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Three Words

You asked me to write words
Only intended for your eyes
That would tell of feelings
Reserved for you
Of how you’ve made me feel
Each time you come to mind
Of how you’ve entered into my heart
How through the words we’ve spoken
We’ve developed a bond
Not to be broken
To tell of the lust
Deep within my soul
For your mind, your body, your heart
Of how I long to meet your eyes
Feel the gentle passionate touch
Of your skin on mine
As deep inside I lay
Wrapped in your warmth
As we let passions flow
To tell you of the feel
Of the touch of your lips
How when our emotions flowed
We’d lie in each other’s arms
Throughout the night
To arise and walk through the day
As we watch time and life go by
Oh what words I wish I had
To tell of all of this
But there are only three
That come to my mind


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Invisible Man Returns 2 21

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.

Back to the place where I raised walking the streets of my old hometown nothing changes,
Having been walking for days and days the shoes I found have just starting falling apart,
My toes poke out from a big hole in the front and my blistered feet are freezing cold,
It's funny sometimes how things seem to start to give up just like my broken old heart.
As usual the cold bites through my torn clothes then the wind whips up and blows my hair,
It needs a good wash the grease lets me flatten it to my head and it's grey wavy and long,
But now the wind has changed walking becomes easier I'm glad the wind is behind me now,
This time the wind can blow in the same direction as me so now it can help push me along.
Someone is walking towards me better duck my head it's an old friend that I once knew well,
But there was no need to duck as he crosses over disgusted and he gives me plenty of space,
I can recognise him, all he sees is a pathetic tramp an old man pissed and down on his luck,
Even from the other side of the road he looks sideways just so can't bare to look in my face.

21
Invisible goes back and sits on a bench, hurt, confused, at a loss. To try and take this from his mind he thinks of nice things.

When I was a young boy the there were scented breezes I enjoyed each new day the sun always shone,
When you had friends you could play games and talk, laugh run through grass that was ever so long,
Children full of stories mostly untrue, had a unique personality each of my friends I will never forget,
But age creeps in and things change lifestyles change losing innocence is the thing I really do regret,
I dream and take myself back, back to the days when cowboys and Indians chased each other all day
Back to the days that were warm and long and we got bored we had holes in our trousers and shirts,
Sometimes when I concentrate really hard and really long I can see myself playing or standing there,
Covered in newly mowed fields with straw and grass running shouting and the wind in my long hair,
And as I take myself back I can see my friends faces running and playing football as clear as today,
What has happened to my happy life where has it gone tell me, "Why does our youth get taken away?"


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Playin' Catch

PLAYIN' CATCH

Mom and Dad would have the car packed the night before we left,
the station wagon filled with all the essentials we'd need for our
extended camping trips. Dad always made sure I had my ball glove
ready for rest stop breaks. This was my favorite anticipated time of
the trip!... when we would stop, Dad would tell me to grab my glove, 
but I was already out the door, lookin' for a clear stretch of grass to
throw with him. Dad had the same glove all through the years, an
old, beat up version that didn't have much padding. I used whatever
glove I was currently using for the team I was playing on, either
a present from him, or a gift, sometimes from a coach. Dad wanted 
me to start throwin' easy, as his eyesight wasn't all that sharp, and 
he needed to limber-up first, and focus on the 'heat!' I was tossin'.
I remember he would always encourage and compliment me on my
improvement since the last time we threw!. Our trip out west, "Custer's
Last Stand"...Yellowstone National Park".... our trips to "Itasca State Park"
and "Tettegouche State Park" always settin' aside time to "play-catch".

In time, Dad couldn't follow the thrown ball very good, and I remember 
when he told me he couldn't "play-catch" any more; by then I was
playin' varsity ball in high school, and Dad would come watch me play.
I always still brought his old glove and favorite 'rubber-coated' baseball
along on outings, so he wouldn't think I didn't remember he was 
still my hero, whether he could throw or not. I treasure those moments
now, and always try to 'play-catch' with the little cousins of mine, 
encourage and compliment them on their improvement,

.......since the last time we 'played-catch'








l


Details | Prose Poetry | |

thee author

it has no rhythm it has no rhyme it sang in me. with no concept of time wildly I'd purpose a certain scarlet
treasure measured beyond the silent jest I'd come to fathom wits above
thee solid mental structure of selfish misguided. beliefs daintily I'd fallen amid empty channels of unspoken gestures of tangible lessons a tranquil. timing I suppose a differ throughout familiar time lost without rhythm or rhyme


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A sound of orient

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

2009

2009
1-09
WLM
Wildncrazy555

We had a great time
Waiting for 2009
We waited up
For the time to count down
For all of the times
To set up the rhythms
With my BFF
Waited till it was up
We passed the night
With all that was right
And let the time go
As only we would know
Let all of the fear
As what seems near
We had to crash
Let all things smash
To start the new day
In our own special way
Let all things air
As only we care


Details | Prose Poetry | |

One For Love

Your sweet breath escapes you and engulfs my soul 
Through words spoken as though from some celestial being 
Warm emotion floods me, floods my very fibrous core 
Love I feel is not a mere four letter 

Word that reluctantly man takes for granted, but more a 
Monument to the jubilous fire you set my soul alight with 
Speak, I cannot, the true magnitude of shear bliss 
Endured by my mortal flesh. With the slightest brush 
Of your angelic fingers. None can know or fathom 
what true insurmountable beauty lies within 
green fields of yet discovered highland plains laden with 
flowers and sweet honey aroma blows within. Feeble 
in my attempts to profess my own meek emotions 
turmoil of my own past colliding with the yet to be. I destroy 
myself knowing such turmoil I cause in an entity 
none like yourself. Meager apology and material possessions 
offer no hint of emotion of love and remorse contained 
My, love, our love, will endure of that much I am sure. Open my mind 
My only wish, to show you things I need you to see. I have known 
No strength such as yours you take for granted. Times as this 
I've never known but with you only would I have it to spend. Forget 
Not the who I was, the who I am, and the who I will be. 
My love, our love will endure of that much I am sure 
 
Monotony & Mundane remain the same 
caught in this slippery pretty net 
we're all falling in and around our own whirlpools 
our upward spiral climbs too high - the higher up the further down 
Fly the same play the same one with the other 
floating always floating 
This sea we've created weaved in the merciless 
fabric of the time we all flock to certain death 
holding the hands of our clocks & wondering why 
our own bleed. double edged is the face of 
a sundial. With each shadow flicker anguish & 
joy death & life exist permanently & are lost forgotten 
by time held by life lost by eternity. 
Let's all rally hand in hand while the band 
plays on 


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 | |

~ (~) ~ Answering Hate (Part #3 of 5) ~ (~) ~

As I am always brought back around through Him to feeling it again yes to remembering it
from time to time through good folks like you. As yes I believe I am always and in every
way that-I'm willing myself to look for. I am being brought again into the remembrance of
this, and remembering that I have always felt it too as I believe it always just keeps on
growing in this way in one way or the other. It is most uncomfortable for me... as I feel
that no different. Being brought again to the realization to remember for myself that just
like the rest of the world I am myself truly the same as everyone. At least at the moment
now, I can see it this way. And so I hope that I always can, and will be able. So yes for
myself I ran to the other part of the message that was offered by some good friends that I
feel now were just as bold as you have been with me today. I ran to the good people who
wrote the Bible. But not only to them and their message that they wrote down in it. But I
ran to embrace the main idea that is contained in its pages I feel. I ran to Jesus.
Because I feel that open to me like our Father and His He lived the truest example of just
how not to do what I have been doing my whole life with the idea of Him myself this world
and another. 

And through His example I find I am still willing to do my best I guess to try and live in
this way. And as I do I am slowly growing away from my hate for all these things that I
mentioned above. I can only hope still that I am doing the right thing, remaining faithful
to the One who made me, and I feel now, the world and what lies beyond it and the perfect
beauty living inside all of us. Because at least to me I believe it is the only way I can
feel and believe now today that will always take me farther away from these feelings that
I have felt and am still sometimes being made to feel today myself. Because He has given
me the only way I have ever known that will carry me around this. Yes I ran strait within
myself into the place that He I believe now can be always kept and will always be found.





http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fe7yOccqdxI&feature=related


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Every New Step I Take

Every New Step I Take


You drag me back,I don't want to go back to were you say you love me and that we'll be together forever.I never like the way you keep repeating how you loved me , now i see that your only loves was the games you played.Should have know that everything would fall but i couldn't help but move forward and making every mistake I'm learning but learning slow.You should drag me back into your world or else it will back fire.every step is irreplaceable and bow I see why you felt lonely.No not this time I'm going to go forward you won't break me and i will strive I'm tired of this game like the game of cat and mice.You won't understand you won't know how it feels to be dragged down after reaching a new step.With ever step I would take you would have dragged me down but not this time I on this one


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lovers Of a Hundred Decades Ago

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

Jessica J. Hanna
November 2006


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Play On

I am playing the piano in my mind, in tune
with the one I love. My fingers caress the
ivory as angels provide the harmony, harps
plucked by cherub's mingle in the melody.
This ballad from the heart is easy, but the
words as yet hard to find, for the feelings
so hard to describe and rhyme. But I play
on knowing that these words will come,
and in time echo my hearts voice. For
this song was always meant to be a duet
for two beating hearts, two beating hearts
to waltz in time with love. So tip toe this
ballroom of romance, hold me, glide this 
floor of desire. Let our music fill the soul,
and passion be the rhapsody. I am playing 
the piano in my mind, in tune with the one
I love. Knowing she dances deep within
this heart.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Belief

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Year Gone By

Has it really been a year gone by
Watching the flame of
The single candle on your cake you try
I think back on the year gone by
From hearing it’s a girl
To holding you in my arms
I don’t know who’s grown more
You or I
I remember when your eyes first opened
Wondering what it was you saw
The first time you smiled
I was wrapped around your finger
A year gone by of late night feedings
When I laid you to your mother’s breast
The times you needed changed
The times you needed held
The times you simply slept
I remember them all through the blur
Of the year gone by
I remember when you first left your mother’s breast
When you first tried to touch you knew not what
The first time you giggled
Your shock when you first rolled over
How quickly you learned to crawl and explore
So many things you did I remember
But my fondest memory of the year gone by
Is how I’ve learned to give love
And set aside myself
For someone much more special than I
Has it really been a year gone by

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit
http://www.reverbnation.com/#/mikehamill
As the lead single it comes with a music video viewable at
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TlWpKk_J2bA


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Watch Guard

She is forever youthful, well grounded and strong. Her posture is beyond perfection. Her heart heals faster than mine. She has a deterministic mind that doesn't hesitate to go after what it wants. If I stood beside her you'd think we were twins, but that is not quite the case. She is my watch guard that I cannot see, but only imagine in my head. "Pull through", says the little voice in my thoughts. "Pull through, just a little bit further", the faint voice calls. 

Most of us cannot afford to skip a second, a window of opportunity. Waiting passively for fate to send a sign, to watch a bright light bulb flicker on and off, not the choice pro active planners take. Time moves faster than most of would like. Translucent time is what we have on our hands, my dear friends. At such high speeds, we rarely see it, -but hang on in our minds. My watch guard doesn't control time, but she can see it more clearly than me.

In twenty two years, I have learned that anything worth achieving requires a little sweat and tears.  One or two years older, does not necessarily mean we are wiser than we were in our past.  I have learned from my mistakes while at the same time, I have concluded that the wise are the confident ones. The confident ones know where they stand.  They list off their likes and dislikes as quickly as one tells the time of day. This is not to say that the wise don't take risks, for they most certainly do, but with precision. My watch guard carefully pulls the hidden confidence out of me.

In twenty two years, I have learned stressing solves no mystery. Mysteries are for detectives, whom we are not. We are the achievers, tall and proud. This is not to say the achievers have it easy,- not in the least bit. If sweat and tears is what it takes, then we will sweat and cry. We will also laugh and love along the way, of course. My watch guard shows me the clearest path to take. "Pull through, strong this time" says the little voice in my head. "When you need a little push, call on me", my watch guard reminds me. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

And You

The first time I looked into your eyes
I knew my heart was gone
The first time I held you in my hands
I found new meaning to my life
I’ve known you for three years 
I’ve watched you crawl
And learn to walk
Giggled as you learned to talk
And you, you are my life
And you, you are all life means to me
When I’m, when I’m with you
There’s no place I’d rather be
There’s good times yet to come
Sure to be a few bad ones in between
Only sure thing is
I’ll be there for you
As long as I’m alive
No matter what you’ve said or done
You’ll have one sure place you can come
You’ll always have a place
That you can call your home
And you, you are my life
And you, you are all life means to me
When I’m, when I’m with you
There’s no place I’d rather be
And you, you are my life
And you, you are all life means to me
You’ll always have a place
You can call your home

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit
http://www.reverbnation.com/#/mikehamill


Details | Prose Poetry | |

the time that is moving round me now 1 - 3

 1
some are going ahead
some are going back 

having my fingers wielded 
on an old type-writer
i’m thinking what should i do 

a pretty long time passed away
since the village alphabet 
had bade me farewell 

in my recent thinking 
there is a severe harikiri 

the song 
that i have sung in a deep forest 
in front of the wild flowers 

now when i am sitting  
under the ceiling-fan 
of the heaven 

i can see that both 
the lyric and the tune of the song 
have vanished


 2
this morning 
i’ve woke up little earlier 
to observe the dawn 

the flags of my behaviour 
are posted in the grass-land 
around me 

no one should take them 
as the handkerchiefs of 
a demon 

a group of people is harvesting 
the paddy of the spring-season 

i too join them to remember 
the water-game of the ducks 

i’m speaking less 
or keeping mum 

but there remains so many topics 
to be discussed 

the battle of the ballots… 
the global recession… 
the climate-change…
the terrorism…
the joint-force…
 

 3
i’ve made a thorough discussion 
with myself 

so many arguments which lead to 
even so much fighting 

i see that there has been not 
much lamentation or brooding  
not much grief or sorrow 
not much tension or anxiety 
of my own 

all the time 
surrounding me only is a grey 
non-attachment 
and a joy sans any emotion 

then i think 
if the rose can forget its sorrow and distress 
why should I remember them 
with so much pain and pancreatic problems


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Best friends forever

Best friends forever
 Written 10-13-05 Edited 9-1-07
 
The fire burned brightly 
While we ran through the woods away...away...from the flames 
Faster and Faster 
We ducked behind the bushes 
As the fire trucks arrived
 we laughed and giggled 
watching the torment 
After that day we vowed to be there for each other
 Best friends...forever
 days went by slowly
 Laughter and excitement each time 
until the dreadful day
 When my mother found out 
Restraining order... 
But that could not stop us
 For we were...best friends...forever
 Trouble began to sink in 
The fun we had 
Got caught again 
But did not stop us again
 For we were...best friends...forever 
Another restraining order slapped us in the face But this time it was worse 
That was the day I lost my best friend


Details | Prose Poetry | |

~ (~) ~ The Things of These ~ (~) ~(Part #4 of 6) ~ (~) ~

As you see, hear a few moments later a funny looking Huckleberry Hound dopey little dog cartoon the families all time favorite as the children snicker, and everyone there comes in the room just in time and laughs together. With our dog cocking her head slightly and barking with us. As our kitten Timid whacks at her ears stops again and chases her wagging tail, hysterically. And I tell you if it is all I can do to cherish the freshness of these things, friend I will. I tell you I've already won. My baby's laughter there in the highchair clapping with his superman bottle sitting in his diaper splashing away all over Him listening to Dave Matthew's' It's Not Easy To Be Me waving it in one hand as he shimmy's and rocks too and fro to the beat of the ambiance of the new day, yes, reminds me ... . Our Oreo cookie looking kitten named pounce, playing alone today now there in-the-rain. How everything from birth has remained so curious to him. His resilience as he laid there with her saying goodbye ... . As Gracie his sister just passed on, yesterday. So I feel fate brings us to this opportunity, gentle mercy, tender beauty, purest of goodness, when willing, everyday. Though even we do, or do not pray. Like the perfect feel of those glorious tender kisses. Sweet caresses flying footballs bike riding scuffed up knees tender love and band aids humming-birds-humming. As-they-hover by the honey water feeders. The dog barking Pounce and Timid playing with their super bouncy ball bouncing around whimsically too and fro. The Mango Chicken Surprise chicken in the Set-It-and-Forget it rotisserie. Slippery wet feet legs flung up swinging arms and tossing shoes loud thunks of your older swimmer Son slipping coming in from His morning workout on the linoleum floor being just freshly mopped right bye the back door. As Mama cries out ""sorry Son" the dog or cat peed and you yell too"" You alright", and he yells back frustrated "Whatever!" "This is a crazy family"! "I want out" Let me out"! And yes some other real good humor I cannot really hear right now, and as well yes I feel he is like Jim Carry and Robin Williams and a lot like me and my morning coffee. Still being drank all throughout whatever heat of the day. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HWJVmk8s9NU&playnext=1&list=PLAAF17CBEBB7C3D44&index=78


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Pet sitting Panic's

Oh my goodness,
the dog has gone poo,
Uh oh, NOT THERE,
What am I gonna do?
Go get a wet rag,
and a bottle of windex,
wip it all up,
and move on to the next,
Oh my goodness,
the dog ate my lunch,
shouldn't have left it so close,
woof woof, munch,
Oh my goodness,
the fogs run away,
got to go find hime,
there's no time for play,
Oh my goodness,
the dog was right here,
Ar'nt you glad that he stayed very near?
Now it's time for some rest,
until the next day,
this pup's put you through the test,
but would you have had it,
any other way?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Angel

The day you wore born my whole word became complete. We toke you home for 
the whole family to meet, you never left my side until the night you turned blue 
and almost died. We rushed to the hospital hoping they could save you, I 
wondered in my head was I a bad mother, what did I do to hurt you? We waited 
three hours before we could see you. They said there is hope for you. We toke 
you home with all the little machines each one was attached to you. At night I 
would lay a wake looking at you. If I could not hear your machines I would jump 
up and awake you.  We would go for walks; your big sister always wanted you. 
You looked like your daddy, but with mommy’s eyes. You have the cutest laugh 
that would make any one smile... I thought we where going to make it. We where 
going to have a great life. Your seven months now, you just got your first two 
teeth. Eating baby food. Playing with your little feet. I knew you where still sick with 
all the trips to the hospital. I thought you would be fine… but the last time we toke 
you, they said you could not breathe. My heart fell into pieces, but I knew I had to 
be strong. I set there think you where going to be ok, that we would be going 
home in a few weeks. But your body was tired and to weak. You needed bigger 
machines. It was time to sign the form. And let you be. They tried eight months 
and a day, but there was nothing else they could do. I held you one more time as 
your little face turned blue, Ooh how I mourn for you as you lay lifeless, cold in my 
arms. I said my good byes.  But when my little angel left the room apiece of my 
heart left with him too. That night we drove home, but in side I felt dead too. Till 
this very day I still cry for you.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Time

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Untitled

How many times can you let me down, 
I fall to the ground stand up and 
wipe my knees and keep going, 
In time my knees will heal, 
Time after time I keep falling, 
can I trust that I have learn 
         To walked? 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Thespider and man

THE SPIDER AND MAN
Spider; is high time you started thinking like human
That, made unique from us, I don’t deny the fact
I have quit your fascinating homes
Yet, in all your regalia
You have come to disturb me in my nasty abode.
Man; what a gross contempt
You speak with no iota of sincerity 
How can you say, ye departed from men
When you are fully in charge in men’s home
As they become incapacitated to be neat.
Spider; your utterance was conditional, I am glad
That I don’t near men’s home if things are not in disarray
But, when you come to my abode
You destroy my estate that I built tenaciously
Through which I have my daily bread.
Man; beyond every reasonable doubt, you have proved
Even dough you seem to be the biggest of all insects
What so ever in that your body is complete water
How can you build your enticing estate to block our route-?
Through which we make our own daily bread!
Spider; men can be dam selfish! Even dough-
Sometimes, I be your guest 
To make you uncomfortable so you can learn to be neat
But, never stopped the source of your daily bread
Why should you destroy my estate for your own daily bread?
Man; that was a cute question! I never knew you are brilliant with such a small head  
I taught the creator deprived you everything. You are incompetent to use the-
Colossal double-eyes of yours and you are myopic in everything
And to till the earth with your enormous legs is never in your agenda!
Spider; don’t make ridicule of me dear! I concede that am lazy
But, I use my talent to eke for a living
But, you answer luxurious names like, “professor, lawyer, doctor and whatever “ 
Why not make use of your big brain for your daily bread? 
Instead of perpetual head-ache I embrace from you in farmlands and forests.
Man; you don’t know men give you too much privilege
You jump and dance from one three to another
With your cursed anus to make your abode
Do we not virtually plant those threes you enjoy?
Learn to be appreciative for once in your life!
Spider; there should be no course for alarm!
At least, men should treat me with an iota of courtesy
You should know that, whatever you see in your route in the farm as web
It is my estate I had taken time to build and is a source of my daily bread
Be comfortable as a superior being and I as well be comfortable as a lesser animal ! 
 

  


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Take me Back to the Time

Take me back to a time when have a Pepsi was for merry people at Christmas,
When General Electric fairy lights hung on real trees and pine needles fell,
Father Christmas smoked Pall Mall cigarettes because they were the smoothest,
A present of Tupperware for your mum was the very best present in the world.

Back to a time when Lional train sets made a man of a boy and a boy of a man,
Sammy Davis took Alka Seltzer as it eased his holiday headaches making him well,
Where Tide washing powder made every husband the most smartest man in every town,
And another happy chubby Father Christmas drank Coca Cola because it was the best.

A time when lorries slowly drove along roads selling wood for Christmas real fires,
A new Hoover would take care of any mess that was caused by the most crowded party,
Carlings Red Cap beer was the perfect drink for the perfect party with no hang overs,
And Crushed Rose Lipstick and transformed every woman from a house wife to a princess.

Woman should gain weight stop being skinny and tired with a plan that made you fat,
But the best of all were cock-eyed, cross-eyed glasses that made your eyes look normal,
And Woolworth's was the shop to buy all your Christmas presents to delight your family,
But for a young boy the best present he could ever get in his life was a new bicycle.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Why Hurry

Everyone seams to be in such a hurry,
Here, There and Back with no direction they scurry,
About thier loved ones, friends, and selves do they worry.

So lost in thier own lives are they,
Rushing about day after day.

Forgotten about words like please, thank you, & excuse me,
why are you in my way don't you it's all about me.

Beeping thier horns as they drive down the street,
If you come to close to them they tread on your feet,
Just can't take the time to a stranger greet.

Rush, rush, rush to get to thier destination,
They will step over or around you without hesitation.

Why hurry through life it's short enough,
Why live your life like it's a rush,
Take in all the things that you can see, hear, and touch.

For life is not a race to see who will win,
Just take the time to look back over your sholder & see where you have been,
Life is ment to be enjoyed for the journey not hurried to the end...

Moon Dog Art


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Time

At 7:12 am 
The sound of footsteps
Were always the same
Neither heavy nor light
As they made a scuffing sound
Shuffling by the window
Along with the sound
Of a large dog’s nails
Clicking on the ground

This particular morning
There were some new sounds 
The sound of rain
Falling heavily on an open umbrella
And the splish-splash of feet
Walking down a wet street
A little more quickly than normal
Along with the sound of car tires
Splattering down a wet road
On the way to somewhere
Or maybe coming back 
From someplace else

Checking the clock
He realized it was almost time
To get out of bed 
And get ready for work
Besides 
There was nothing else to hear
Because at 7:15
Everything seemed to quiet down
Until sometime after 12:27

Sometimes he wondered
If his friends were right
Maybe he was 
Slightly obsessed with time

But at 8:38… who cares?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Portrait of a Woman Walking

She has good eyes
Eyes that have not found winter
Quite yet
But eyes that long ago
Had left autumn
Far, far behind

Looking down empty streets
Filled with vacant benches
And bare trees
Whose leaves have long ago
Passed into yesterday
She walks about
Indifferent to the world 

It's a time of change
A time of cold winds
And gray skies
Filled with meaningless clouds
That move this way
And then that

Skies 
That just like her
Hold nothing but memories 
And shadows of sunshine
That once filled lover's hearts
With possibilities of tomorrow
And unborn dreams 

She has good eyes
Eyes that long ago
Once knew
Summer, spring and autumn
Eyes
That have not
Quite yet
Found winter


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Blacktorn Winters

Many years ago, way back in time the month of April was known as the Blackthorn Winter,
It was the time of the year when the blackthorn begins to dress in her finest blossom,
Deep in the country the small hamlets custom says is the time for bitter cold weather,
Time for east and north-easterly hard winds chill all, hail, sleet and sometimes snow.

The blackthorns and the plums in sheltered orchards awaken and begin to come to life,
They quickly showed themselves thickly clustered with tiny little green bursting buds,
Blue whiteness of the blossom half revealed, like the wide smile of a beautiful girl,
A rich white that makes your heart and eyes light up at the sight of unrivaled beauty.

Cold are the winds buds of trees swell and they grow like a naturally beautiful woman,
They come forward and bloom standing cold but fearless, determined to wait for the sun,
On cold grounds a lilac stands it looks so green flushed with it's half-unclosed leaves,
A yellow rose fights to start its new life just as custom says in a Blackthorn Winter.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Summer's Here, Fall's Never Coming

I remember the first time you touched me, I pulled away, cause it just made me feel uncomfortable he said. She asked why and all he could say was,,, It's complicated. See he was like a pomegranate. Built with a hard shell on the outside, but lots of sweetness built up inside of him. He was just too afraid to let anyone in. He'd grown up tattered&beaten down like an overthrown baseball, the girls of his life being the pitchers and playing with him like he was a toy. They all had him dancing the night away making him feel like he was something special for the first time. Only to deceive and besmirch his kind heartedness. Until eventually all they'd wanted was his sweet seduction, Making love like the clouds were their bedroom, and the more these women touched him and received their pleasures, he died a little inside. Every other touch became another heartache, Every kiss and caress another nightmare for his daydreams, and every time his grandma leaned over his shoulder just to wrap his body and kiss his cheek to make him feel loved, all he could do was turn the other away.. &then came Summer, and he prayed fall would lay dormant, for he felt a satisfaction in her vocal cords and the symphony lips played as they dance to romance's acoustics. Stealing smiles and fanning cold chills to make it through the heat.. this season was special, so special in fact, that he asked it to stay forever. and for the first time he actually felt.. like he was special..


Details | Prose Poetry | |

poetry prose : within me -hope you enjoy

Inside I slumbered within the fancy of time in my ancient youth, living in but a fantasy
my soul left my body like old, decaying slippers, into the protected chasms of my mind

From a far: my eyes like telescope lenses searching the universe that lied outside my world
when would time move again like a locomotive on the time-line of my life

Where do I begin but at the end, when I met the love of my life, seems but a flash ago
Words sent on quantum strings like paper-cup phones, my rapid-eye movement became to 
slow

Never did I phantom that once I found the other piece of my heart that too many other 
pieces would be missing
Waking up to a world that had pass me by, I have no clue what to do

I arrived at the station of my body, feeling the numbness subside to depression
Feeling the flood of emotions kept in a bottle tossed into the waves of time, come back to 
me once again

Now I stare into my loves eyes, upon the bed: insomnia to my dreams
With nostalgia of my hide-a-way from life, wishing I could offer more to my love than a world 
built on fantasy: a poof of smoke


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Time and Work

Ecclesiastes 8:6NCV
There is a right time and a right way for everything.
John 6:27
Do not work for food that spoils, but for food that endures to eternal life.



We wonder sometimes with great worry about what time will bring. We must remember that 
God has given time to us as a gift. God was present at the beginning of time and He will be 
present at the end of time.

We cannot fear for the future because it is God's hand on eternity. It is you who dictates 
your time by the choices you make. We often feel there is not enough hours in the day to 
accomplish our tasks. We often feel there is never any time for ourselves. Remember to ask 
God to help you, and He will show you where and how to find the time.

God will put your mind at ease with time. Time is a gift, and everyday is yours. God wants 
you to live free and without worry of time. He will walk with us every step of the way every 
time.

As all of us on Earth must work to sustain our lives here, we must also remember to work 
for our spiritual well being. Your relationship with God will provide you with the food for your 
spirit. The food for your spirit is a great variety such as wisdom, understanding, joy, peace, 
love, and patience. In this job you have only one boss and that is God. That is a great 
comfort in knowing you have such a great boss as God. This is a perfect side job, working to 
feed your spirit. Start your application process now by praying to God. He will surely hire 
you and your spirit will be fed.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Invisible Man 10

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.

After a long time the Invisible man drops off into a light sleep. He dreams of his school friends, good days days that you will never forget and beautiful days that will make you cry.

My beautiful friend on this day,
Rise up and dress and come away,
We will walk in wild woods and upon plains,
To stare into pools where water rains.
We will walk under a roof of green leaves,
Under the spruce and garland weaves,
Leaning against the trunk of a tree,
Me holding you, you holding me.
Bluebells ringing as we walk by,
Holding hands the sun in his sky,
Bright with buttercups on this day,
Staring into eyes nothing to say.
Happy to be anywhere with you,
I hoped that is the same for you too,
Feeling high walking by your side,
Floating, smiling, eyes open wide.
So on we walk so happy together,
Not really caring about the weather,
It does not matter to me what we do,
It never does when I am with you.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

When time began

Try to imagine our world without time
A timeless world that festers and rots;
But if some change no matter how brief
Could change this world and make a difference.
The “now” would be different than “before”
Indicative of the passing of time.
Thus time and change are related events
Because passing of time depends on change.
In our real world changes have never ceased
Some happen repeatedly some just once:
The breaking of waves against the seashore;
Or it’s a particular falling leaf.
When we first counted repeated changes
It was only then, friend, when time began.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Monday Aint Thursday And Thursday Aint Today

Another week is here and man I swear I dont wanna set foot from this bed I'll stay home
instead having breakfast in bed and rest my weary head but I know I got to go so I might as
well get started hit the door I'm on the road ready to start this dang long day but Monday aint
Thursday and Thursday aint today. What I would give to be on a beach and off my feet or 
taking a stroll through Memphis eight days a week whatever would be nice or a simple day in 
paradice but Monday aint Thursday and Thursday aint today. It's always Mundane mixed with 
a little shame how I wish I was rich cause this same old scene I just wont miss all the 
grueling hours and many long nights I've the heart of a fighter but the attention of a wire, 
my daddy always told me I could reach higher I know he's right but not this time I need 
some time to unwind cause Monday aint Thursday and Thursday aint today. I know I gotta 
face today but it really is a drag just let me skip today and the next three days and I'll be 
fine but Monday aint Thursday and Thursday aint today.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Invisible Man 8

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 Invisible Man 16

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 sits on his bench in the shopping parade it is a windy day but the sun shows itself every now and then. He feels hung over today as he was drunk last evening and his mind wanders off in different directions. Again his defence mechanisms start to work and he reflects about his past.

I have seen bright-eyed daises open and golden yellow buttercups across huge meadows unfold,
A delicate golden shining carpet spreading across water-mead’s the finest a cloth of purest gold,
White clouds scudding across watery blue skies, puffs of cotton changing their shapes as they go,
Storms at a distance rumbling and rolling peels of thunder and lightning both with hail and snow,
Pure white spring lambs grazing beside a crystal brook looking around and dancing in their stream,
Swallows playing games flying fast and low singing with joy while the brown cows give cream,
But now I have no home and this beautiful land stays in my head like a picture painted in my mind,
Even in my desperate loneliness I still dream longing and searching for more dear memories to find,
In my daydream there is an old road winding its way to nowhere I lean on an old gate in the lane,
I dream of May time everything is being reborn the glades and the fields turn back to gold again,
In my daydream I am listening to a skylark singing sweetly joined by a nightingale over my head,
In my dream I am respected and good company I have friends talking and laughing enjoying life,
But it is just a dream and my dreams never come true they end in tragedy and cruelty why is this?

Invisible is brought back to reality when he realises someone is shouting at him for sitting on the seat he is told that the seat is for old people to sit on. Invisible tells the man there is plenty of room on the seat. The reply to that is ‘ who in their right mind wants to sit next to a smelly old dosser move now!’


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Infinity Wish

Time . . .
				Lays low everyone
With its passing



		Time . . .
More often than not
						We find out
			There is not enough
								In the end



Time . . .
	It rolls on
				Never slowing down
							The inexorable juggernaut




					Time . . .
Leaves us
								Wishing for more
		And more
						For there is never enough
	To do and say	
									All that satisfies



	Time . . .
			Leaves only memories
							In its wake


Details | Prose Poetry | |

pouch poetry 5 - 9

5.
is it true love 
or i do take it granted 
that i’m in love 

or i do love to think 
that i’m loving 

and there is 
neither any welcome address 
nor any opening song 
in my love 

my experience with heat of fire
and with burning pain
in the flames of water 
is nothing less

6. 
in course of burning 
i look around 

the chilly-plant  in the tob 
planted in my won-hand 
producing green-chillies

oh-ho how sweet they are

it is no chilled-body 
that has earned 
my life or death 

no remarkable mark 
is endorsed 
on the lotus-leaf 

now easily some words 
can be written 
on you 

i don’t know whether 
those would be at all 
some lines of a poem 
 

7
someone falls in loves 
someone makes love 
love comes to some another 

there is the far-off 
whispering 

at first she constructs me 
then destroys rightly 

i notice her 
for the first time in six weeks  

the love 
that writes 
in the footnote of the tennis-ball 
a desperate struggle for existence 

within our skull 
there is the love 

or the midnight of the orion 

the little squirrel asked now
are you in your seventies 
or eighties 

those houses with the coating of 
the sky the air the light-and-shade 
provide me with the presentation of 
a wig and 
a set of artificial teeth 
8.
the love 
that touches the hand 
in drizzling 

the love 
that gets lost in the brandishing 
grasses 

would they want to inform 
that the flowers don’t have any skyscraper

in the layers of the flesh and blood
of the detergents 
as if  a whole human civilisation has been suffering 
from suppressed pain 

within it with the dry spell of 
anger and cough 
the time 

had there been no feeding from the love 
does the human civilisation stagger

9.
do you think those words 
or it’s myself 

whatever may you say now 
i’ll travel within a great death 
to die 

rather after my demise i may tell 
i’ve informed everyone …look 

beneath the large evergreen flower tree 
the game of light and shadow continues

beside those simple households 
besides a high-head mobile-tower 
what else would you like to be 

is it a bath in the ganga-river is it a leaf 
of the water-lily or it’s a king-cobra  
tell me

i would now make love
with that idea from you


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Blackthorn Winter

Many years ago, way back in time the month of April was known as the Blackthorn Winter,
It was the time of the year when the blackthorn begins to dress in her finest blossom,
Deep in the country the small hamlets custom says is the time for bitter cold weather,
Time for east and north-easterly hard winds chill all, hail, sleet and sometimes snow.

The blackthorns and the plums in sheltered orchards awaken and begin to come to life,
They quickly showed themselves thickly clustered with tiny little green bursting buds,
Blue whiteness of the blossom half revealed, like the wide smile of a beautiful girl,
A rich white that makes your heart and eyes light up at the sight of unrivaled beauty.

Cold are the winds buds of trees swell and they grow like a naturally beautiful woman,
They come forward and bloom standing cold but fearless, determined to wait for the sun,
On cold grounds a lilac stands it looks so green flushed with it's half-unclosed leaves,
A yellow rose fights to start its new life just as custom says in a Blackthorn Winter. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hard Reflections

Living today in the wake of yesterdays yesteryears, 
following the footsteps not walked for a while. 
Finding hope in the pages of time unwritten fearful 
that hope is all for nothing 
Offended by all of the offenders that crowd my sullen day 

All along the way I know in advance 
that the way I've lived most is 
the last way to live, 
knowing the way is hard to find when the 
days amount to nothing. Production slows 
as the motion becomes all to apparent, 
apparently just going through the motions. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Fall Of Winter

The ice fell from the clouds 
Coating and bouncing off the highway 

From time to time 
The car shifted going down the road 
As if the wheels had a mind of their own 

Turning off the radio 
To help concentrate on my driving 
The hail sounded all about 
Tic, tic, ticking with varying constant beats 
All about and against the window 
As the wipers frantically tried 
To keep up with the cold frozen rain 

The lights 
Searching down the icy highway 
Sparkled off the falling hail 
Giving them the appearance 
Of dancing diamonds 

This was winters last hoorah 
A final stab at keeping spring at bay 
A failed charge 
Like the light brigade 

While I 
Was mesmerized 
Steering down this gem infested highway 
With a front row seat 
To the beauty of driving through 
The fall of winter


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Unremitting Serenade (Part three)

He came into your life from afar
At first he stood and watched from a distance
He whispered not to you but to another
Then he stepped closer to call forth-another one
This one like you
Sorrow called forth Nanator and with him your soul
He faded and tainted your most precious gift
He reached out to fleck my wings with grey too that day
For that day he nearly filled the well again
Still he had barely begun and his work grew ever closer to us both
This time he whispered to you from a foot away
Thus thrice he reached out to call forth another
Yet each time ‘twas I who wept for our suffering
For no tears have fallen from thine eyes in many years

Still Sunder gave you something in return for all he had stolen
Didn’t he . . . didn’t he
For all the bits and pieces of your soul
You were given something so dearly precious it hurt to have it
And now you lament with a voice to be heard
By the few who were to know the one buried so deep inside
The few to be loved and to love you
Desolation knew this would be so
So he whispers to you often now and from afar
Knowing that you cannot help but to listen and to grieve
With your new voice
Though it rarely rises above a breath to be a whisper
It sings of your great disenchantment
Your disbelief and your faith in the void
It allows you to cry
To tell the tale and story of your greatest sorrow

Within you there lies a faith of something more
And the desire to see
And cause the light to glimmer within another’s eyes
One whose life could carry your hopes within them
To lend your strength to
One who might have all that you denied yourself
For these long and many years
So heavy upon your shoulders
And yet this can never be and this is what despairs you so
For none to follow you
None at all
Never
Never”

And thus she spoke to me plainly
To show me my loss of faith anew
So in her despair in her sorrow
My unbelief breathes again
My search for desolation reborn
For this knowledge too great to bear
Thus I fled and so it was 
I ran
A great many years
I hid myself deep within
Beyond the reach of sunlight and the eye of the moon
And in the darkness
I tore out all that caused my pain
I read everything again
To see
And to know
Why it was I had
So long ago embraced wholly my unbelief


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Silent One

Who is living alive inside of you? 
Do you even really want to know?
Have you ever spoken to the one that is always speaking to you?
Are you stacking all of your priorities with any proper perspective?
You know it is your battleground or so this is how you make it seem.
A zest for life arises in you continuously only to later be continued. 
So abruptly, you have dismissed the silent one inside of you to go!
All because you were swiftly overpowered by your own self-greed 
Nevertheless, where does the silent one keep retreating off to?
The silent one holds onto every single chance for a timely thought. 
Even all of those improbable unachieved least possible dreams!

What is it that lives alive inside of you?
What makes you even want to breathe?
Have you ever really felt the one who is always feeling you?
Innocence is sweet standing in your way of a divine pleasure. 
Again, it is your battleground or so this is how it surely seems!
Your blissful moments are in the hands of the silent one inside. 
Again, poof vanished indeed this time without a trace or lead!
Yet, you are completely indulging in a definite feeling of gratified.    
Still yet, where does the silent one keep scooting away to?
The silent one holds every crystal-clear thought, 
Even the ones all of you will still clearly demean!

Who gives you to you? 
Have you ever once thought deep and hard into that?
A restricted area due to the danger foretoken, your battleground or so it seems!
Excitement swells up alive inside of you with ecstasy’s loud bursting screams!
The silent one is slipping away while verbal battles are fueling into a combat.
Overwhelmed by self-indulgence your every breath is thoroughly exhausted! 
Still yet, where in this world could your silent one be gallivanting away to?
The silent one holds your every thought, even those you have so deemed!
Now do tell, who knows you better than you do?
Have you ever given this up for a chance of much thought?
Have you ever seen the one that is always looking at you?
Conflict of interest guards the main entrance, the battleground or so it seems!
Enticed to indulge the silent one inside is finally caught when truly sought.
Lured by the sight at hand, but why did the silent one have to stay too?
The silent one holds your every moment in your every thought, 
Even those you always seem to unfortunately forget to redeem!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Kawaii is going

My dear Kawaii is going
The day I saw you
I already loved you
The day I brought you home
You never ever alone home
We enjoyed our laughter, kissing also your happy barking
You used to be very playful, loving and naughty upon your living
How time flies....now you are facing the serious diseases
Very sick and weak, the house then full of sorrows with tons of tears
None of us want to say final goodbye to each others
But the reality is so icy and cruel have to damage our gather
We all will surely miss each other by the time you gradually disappear and go
My dear baby, you are always on our minds with loving hello
No matter where you are going and what you are doing
Mom always loves and supports you with my day and night praying
Darling Kawaii, please come to mom's dreams and up-date me all your things
My arms are always open for you at any time and day for your sweet and sour callings
What to say, we are very unwillingly to let you go with our broken hearts
Sweetie, it is not we don't love you, it's we don't want you to be in terrible pain yet it's so very hard
Within these 13 years or so can tell how much we cared and loved each others
So it's the right time to do the right thing.... yet inside our bodies are badly bleeding..
Baby, please then go peacefully to another planet for the joyous life without any more tearing
Love, Mom & Sisters July 31 2012	


Details | Prose Poetry | |

FIFTYTHREE

FIFTYTHREE
CharlaXFabels
Differences
Sheep and Goats is the way the BIBLE says it and ewe can knoe them by the fruit 
some men smoke and some men drink too much
Some men eat too many candy. Poor men eat a lot of fish and some potatoes 
some men look for extra meat. Some men love to eat too much some men still 
don't get enough. When life is over comes the judgment of the GOD. Please say 
JESUS while there is still some time to ponder leave the habits far behind step 
on water walk some lines. One man kills his enemy while in fighting mode one 
man turns away and fights to live another day called a coward he is stone. 
Fighting men live the cowardice. Every time a red neck hurts another freak every 
time a fight has ended in complete harm to the survivor understand the reversal 
of our roles when you both are then transformed and standing at the throne of 
GOD eye plan to then endeavor to forgive you in the sight of a righteous 
plenteous GOD for eye am sinner born of woman and of blood. Saying Jesus 
has to be enough to save us for the Power is the Spirit and the name. Apostolic 
Teachings tell us we aer saved by our own faith. Say the name of Jesus then 
believe in GOD. Works are meant to be the good ones helping others giving aid. 
All the things a fighting man defames. Takers gamblers beggermen thiefs. Not 
goats but sheep in woolite clothing once eye wanted to attempt to fly like 
Superman and walk through the walls and once when eye was near a ditch eye 
went to JESUS in my Spirit and eye witnessed to a HomeOwner who could not 
accept the fact that eye did the impossible split for while eye was standing there 
on the side of the road and in my earthly body eye was also in my Spirit speaking 
in the living room and watching self outside yes lameba eye did split like 
Superman on one episode he was moving to save someone and even if the man 
eye met did not accept it was the attempt that was worth the try. While other men 
fight.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Time

Time isn't always as we perceive it. One day, a minute could seem like an hour. 
Another, an hour could seem like a minute. We fool ourselves into thinking that 
we have time. Time to do all the things we put off daily. Time to change ourselves 
into the people we wish to be. However, this is only an illusion. We think we have 
time to do things later when in reality we don't. Watches, clocks, and dials have 
kept time for us over the years, but we have still have failed to realise that we do 
not own time, time owns us. Everyone's hourglass, which contains their sands of 
time, varies. Someone's might be half-full whereas another's is quickly running 
out. No one knows when their destined time will come, and no one knows in 
which way it is coming. All we can do is live our lives while trying to be the best 
we can be. We can't wait around for time, and we can't allow it to pass by. For 
once time is gone, we can't get it back.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

CharlaXFabels PARTONE LEADVILLE

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Devine Rose

Red Rose time beauty most Devine leave your children the vine. 
Mother of the Life most clear expresses her joy's most Devine. 
Let us cleave to many dark brought back from the Abyss May. 
Purple Hail the Mother children--take back those who seek it. 
Leave the abyss to it and awake it not for the children Devine. 
Medals of time sway you not from your Blue Devine's purposes. 
Let the children to the Devine be swayed not. 
Mary Mother world to you I commit Lover's Dew. 
Your Son is most Royal Devine, love, sweetness and hope.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

FAMILY OF THINKER

some of us wink
some of us or kink
and blink
cause they drinker
part of the 
family of thinker


Details | Prose Poetry | |

SixtySeven

SixtySeven



CharlaXFabels



The Mind Of GOD



LOVE
 He became angry, and when he refused to enter the house, his father came out 
and pleaded with him. 
He said to his father in reply, 'Look, all these years I served you and not once did I 
disobey your orders; yet you never gave me even a young goat to feast on with my 
friends. 
But when your son returns who swallowed up your property with prostitutes, for 
him you slaughter the fattened calf.' 
He said to him, 'My son, you are here with me always; everything I have is yours. 
But now we must celebrate and rejoice, because your brother was dead and has 
come to life again; he was lost and has been found.'" the certainty of days is lost 
in aggravations and in misdirected thinking abilities are missed in dreaming and 
wishing colors were not true the sky is always blue in some peoples world the 
clouds don't move in true reality the clouds fly screaming across the sky to take 
kisses from mye eye to deliver them all to ewe from the kissing place its true oh 
ewe there is many of them there still hanging from my lipps to kiss the lipps of 
ewe. The moral of the story don't get thy dandruff up until the wind blows. WAIT. 
Bulliten: This is just inn hot off the iron. Love lasts forever and yes it forgives so iff 
ewe aer just lately starting to hate me lets nip it now in the bud and snip all the 
hate away and please keep the love thorns are okay when the rose is on vine but 
when picked all the thorns do is cry. Add mee quickly back unto thy eye am 
pleading for mye heart seems to be gone when ewe linger in the ether and do 
not even come just try to find forgiveness in your heart for me today. The concrete 
where eye tried to spend the nite was stiff to muscles used to better beds the dirt 
eye finally found in a corner of the church was fine and warmer out of wind the 
sadness that eye feel is never hate but only love not found and wasted time. The 
anger comes from being left alone.
Eye would not change the way eye am eye would not want it any other way to love 
someone is to miss them when away. My time is spent in vain pursuits of 
happiness continuous searching for food and circuses the hour is almost upon 
the masses no more time to love. Please add me to your list of love as number 
one again mye friend and love the man that eye become is jealous of your love 
and time still searching for your heart and certain ewe aer there in mine and we 
aer both there inside the mind of god. LOVE.

 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Autumn Winds



		Autumn Winds

		
		Summer laid its fully splendour
		long time on flowers, fields
		and trees,
                                but now a heavy sky lingers on
		nature,
		mysteriously and dark ,
		autumnal with its complete force.
		

		This is the time for heavy clouds,
		a turquoise sky remains in memories.
		And now the autumn winds 
		sweep over golden wheat
		and braid an early autum's wreath.
		

		Decidous trees will paint their leaves,
		and bird songs yet are filled with
		summer sounds.
		But soon will autum's early breath
		carry enchanted spell on tumble wings,
		and drizzling fog is covering the dales.
		And summer dreams will softly fade
		to silent nowhere.
		


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sixty8Ball

 Sixty8Ball     
 
 
Author Message 
Admin
Admin



Age : 53
Joined : 25 Jun 2007
Posts : 53
Localisation : Tucson

 Subject: Sixty8Ball   Today at 16:17      

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
Sixty8Ball


CharlaXFabels


GangLanders
Street toughs and criminals fighters and haters drug users and drinkers and 
smokers and sniffers. The eye is 53 chronological in years but excessive use of 
beers has not been nice to my nerves and when they move near me like sharks 
in the water of a limning pool eye flinch a little move away but not fear eye never 
fear no one but namme. Eye would not want to hurt the boyz but neither will eye 
let them tower over me in size they would not make a decent meal for wolf or dog 
or coyote packing hounds of misery they play like men when wanting to deliver 
but they mistake the old homeless for a flake and a quiver when the liver is so 
pink and my spine is finally strait and eye stand in disbelief as they step up to the 
plate eye pulled my glove on then smiled they seemed to hesitate then they tried 
again to make me shake
"we told yew we will beat yew up" the eye was laughing now the jigg was up the 
die was cast no time to worry or even much to laugh eye pulled the other glove on 
my right hand and smiled not moving there just waiting time to dance had come 
they tried again even so they wanted me to think that they had heart they walked 
up to the near me as they could try then one he balked the other one stopped 
also when he realized he was alone and facing some sort of crazxy man intent 
on going home they left with tails all tucked away and nothing left on glove no 
meat no bone. Eye could not let it go eye turned and shouted after them "you 
punked". Remember that this man is already 53 years old lame in one foot and 
blind in one eye shorter than tall taller than them able to tie one hand behind my 
eye and walk away from the gangster fight. Eye win. 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

44FabelsofCharlaX

 44FabelsofCharlaX 
44FabelsofCharlaX 
 
 
 eyeching 
 
CharlaXFabels 
 
Luck. 
 
Coins turn tails and heads it seems so strait forward today we learn the 
variables of luck. 
 It seems so simple tails or heads but there is so many games that cheaters 
learn to play. Three card monte is all the bullies rage no one wins except the 
deal. Play it once then run for life away gambling would be fine if luck ruled the 
play. Men who gamble steal and kiss and cheat the way is linned with silk and 
pistol play. Flipping pennies on a crack to see how close to the wall they got. Eye 
ching tossing FIVE coins two land heads three land tails. TOTAL TWELVE. 
Twelve is good luck for a chinese Charlax android one. A bakers dozen is good 
for yew they laughed at me thirteen was lucky for the thieves. Greedy gain and 
lining money baskets is all that eye was ever taught by them.Then there was Two 
out of three where the coins had to match excatly we each had Heads twice the 
third time we both had Heads again. What now eye said he gave me the 
Quarter.Eye win. Liars poker has been popular for some time in the better bars. 
Look at the number on a Dollar bill and there is matches make a poker hand like 
8737738AA this would be Two aces and three sevens a full house for the player 
picks the best five numbers to stimulate the cards? simulate them eye meant 
like an android acting human and in love. Some Men toss piles in the pot and 
sweat the alcholoic breath and sweat real bullits from there chest of money in the 
corner in the safe marked all in ones. There are seven visible planets and 
luminaries (Sun, Moon, Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn). Each one 
rules a day of the week (Sun=Sunday, Saturn= Saturday, Moon=Monday, etc.) and 
that is where the seven day week came from. Each one is supposed to have a 
particular virtue or power. "The 3 (spirit, mind, soul) descend into the 4 (the 
world), the sum being the 7, or the mystic nature of man, consisting of a threefold 
spiritual body and a fourfold material form. These are symbolized by the cube, 
which has six surfaces and a mysterious seventh point within..." 

A mystery unfolds the number seven is included in this fabel about lucky 
syndromes. 





Details | Prose Poetry | |

TODAYS MUSIC NEWFACES

some come with motion
from over the ocean
and from the worlds
young boys and girls
they dance prance
and sing do many thing
that music world bring
from many racist
TODAYS MUSIC NEWFACES


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The 'Happy' Porn Star

  
 
  The 'Happy' Porn Star.
Grew up in poverty, 
on a farm,deep down in the south.
With too many brothers 
and many her cousins.
She had not the time to love them all..
Except for her pet pink pig.
She had no use for a cork screw.
Most of the house looked like there's.
Not her room, 
full of lace and silk, they yurned.
She burned and burned wanting more.
She has her own pony.
Nice little pony and friends.
By the time she was grown and tall.
Every thing of value she owned.
Old gold coins and silver in a box
southern confederate money, 
yellowed with age.
She packed it all up, 
while her pony and she rode away. 

Is It Poetry 
 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The song We Once Knew

It is a song 
that we grew up with

A song which contains 
our hopes, joys and fears

But the mists of time 
obscured our sight, our sensitivity

The mists of time 
began to block the flow of chi

But we persevered
Once again our song shall be sung

Over the land 
A bird wings its way home

And we watch 
enchanted by the sight


Details | Prose Poetry | |

FabelFortySix

FabelFortySix
PrinterBlood
CharlaXFabel
A Dragnet RippOFF
DUM de DUM DUM de DUM da DUM
“SGT FrYdaY the man came in the office and eye told him to wait there is that 
right?”
“That's right Bill.” 
“Captain Gannon to you son.”
 “The ink was red?” This was FrYdaY.
“The color was the same for blood. We think it was the Crops who done that.” 
Gannon
 “Crips. Its Crips not crops.” FrYdaY
 “Yeah. Yeah.” Gannon
Frank Smith “it could have been the bloods it's the same thing ain’t it the red ink 
supposed to look like blood see eh???”
Reminds me of the time Tillie my wife she spilled some black ink from the printer 
all over my?”  “What JOE what was that?”
“ just the facts Frank Tillie is a fine woman.”FrYdaY
THE MAN: “They came in two at a time.”
“How’s that” Frank said.
“Let me handle this one Frank,”FrYdaY
“What was that MAN?”
“Two Two at a time you said?”
"Just the facts ma'am"eye meant
OH SIR I’m sorry I’m so used to saying that on my investigations” FrYdaY 
Colored. “How do you knoe that” ma’am
Sorry sir did it again
Sorry” FrYdaY
This is not going so well let’s start over.
Eye am Detective FrYdaY this is my partner Frank Smith.
The Captain is Bill Gannon my old Partner he carries a cannon.
“Really?”  This was the man wide awake now
FrYdaY “Yes really it’s in the trunk of his patrol car the sign on the door says 
LAPD Captain it's a FORD.”
Sometimes we drive down the boulevard and stick the cannon out the windows.
NO one seems to notice us 
The MAN turned White and blanched.
“The printer ink was changed to red the Bloods were out of town we think it was 
the crips go around and round them up” This was Gannon to Frank and Joe.
Frank was talking now “Ain’t they the ones with the blue bandanas and the 
tattoos of the Gay sailors?”
“Yeah Yeah that's it” FrYdaY said.
“The Bloods have red bandanas and tattoos of Gay Marines” Frank almost 
smiled.
Joe smiled it looked like a flat fish going south.
Frank and Bill both stopped at the door and smiled at Joe.
“You coming Joe?” they laughed in unison.
Episode One Printer Blood is over. Come back later for the results the finding of 
the Los Angeles courts. DUM DE DUM DUM.



Details | Prose Poetry | |

These Days There Are Nights

There are nights
When the moon sits still
While the stars float
In no particular manner
All about the sky

Nights
When dreams
Come to rest
Gently
Quietly
Motionlessly 
On my shoulders

There are nights
Outside
In the darkness
The wind 
Dances in circles
All about earth
Calling my name

Sometimes
There are nights
When dreams never come
And though I chase them
While I sleep
They have learned
To hide from me
Much too well
To ever find

But these days
There are nights
That hold nothing more 
Than promises 
Spoken in the darkness
That tomorrow 
May
Or may not
Come


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Walking in the Wind for she

Under the sighing sky I stood within the swaying grass
With the rain pelting me like tears of heaven fallen just for us, we the two
And where were you when open these arms did I to the sky and rains drinking of my life
Lost a little bit down by the shore of the teaming river dancing across the turtle
So to it is that I turn from the rains feeding my soul to you and I whisper across . . .

“At times your anger is masked, 
A perception made to last a moment in time of thought, 
You divide, 
Weigh, 
And issue your emotions like that of a pedal in the wind, 
No direction consistent 
It flows in the breeze swaying, 
Hopelessly looking for a soft place to land . . .
And when finally a comfort zone appears 
You place your moment of emotion down 
With caution 
Allowing your self to be free, 
If only for a moment the protective barriers come down and. . . 
Trust appears in the haze . . .”

So my breath falls silent and is lost within the rains streaming down my face
Like the sounds of your bare feet tamping, tamping through the tall grass
That licks your legs and sighs across your dress of downy hide
Beaded in color shied away and wept with tears cascading from the forlorn skies
Awash am I 
Now in the past moment barely past this way before when last did I stumble . . .
Across your voice singing like the lute of day breaking across the river’s silent dance

Once more all over again I hear your voice calling out to me . . .

“I do 
It surfaces from a place 
A place I cannot intentionally visit 
For at random the raw emotions take on life and suddenly 
The emotions without names 
They pump in my veins like that of the thundering sky lit by lightening bolts 
Threatening to make they're appearance known, 
Then with an unexpected BANG my pen demands 
To be in action grasping capturing this moment in time 
That will appear and be gone, 
A sigh of relief 
As I struggle with speediness to write,
Barely catching each emotion that has taken life 
But only for a flash of time, 
I pause 
Frustrated as the glory has gone 
The moment now faded 
I hang my head disappointed 
For when will they surface again, 
I need to feel 
I can't explain my thoughts 
My thoughts 
My thoughts have scattered into a wistful breeze 
Still silent, 
Quiet 
Unmolested silence 
With only the distant cries of . . .
Nature singing it's melodious . . . lullaby


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Seventy1

Seventy1
CharlaXPFable
CharlaXFables
A Rose by any other namme shall smell as sweet to mee as ewe.
Jesus paid the sacrifice the aritifice of life became the death of me to give me 
back the life eye gave away for him to follow him is to find it all again the words 
men speak if allowed to brew would make them dead to make them blow to just 
explode the air then turning into chamber pots of full. Love can be a sacrifice a 
very strang surprise a hurried meal a quick repast that lasts all day and then 
some into the night making merry just for heart. The dead weight of most people 
would cause the air ship the alien crafted vessel that eye ride in to tip over and 
the eye would fall out all over the place. Love can be a pillow cold on one side 
and warm to face. The avid reader can imagine this. Head stopped up with 
saving grace the pain inside stops sleep from come.
Then the pillow turned the face pressed up into the cold the wonderful stopping 
of the pain the added comfort of the pillow side out getting cold again then 
comes the time when the repeated effort is again applied oh the wonder of it oh 
the bliss of a cold pillow kiss. NEWS FLASHED before mye eye:
This is just in from NEO Pueblo when someone gets a message in a forum and 
the message sender sends it as a thank you and then adds a different picture 
than the one in his posted poem as way of illustration do ewe think they noticed it 
at all or is it just that it seems so strang to mee and would it be that they aer so 
obsessed with what they aer doing to jump up and dance on just one foot and 
yell and holler look what CHARLAX did he sent the wrong picture to the forum. 
Eye just deleted an accounting error it was a majoretted disappointed mess to 
me they always made fun of eye and mee and the way eye use my style to make 
a poem bleed the pain of being one so far ahead of time is priceless in the 
function of an android using lifetimes.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

~ Poem the 1st Chap. Inspired Bye ~ Part #24

~ Yes, I'll set here with Him and with you, but only for a moment... " Yes talk some alone with you and Jesus! " Of my many dreams.For my new, and expanding family, and for me,and for Jamie, (((and the many a sorted thing,))) and yes I reckon. ~  ~ To run off laughing still I just might go off alone again in time to wrestle with the wind. (((Oh but no, really...))) In my honesty, and my abandon and in the gentle advance of my heart, I say to you. For this is to be considered as well. ~ ~ In a while I reckon. (I'll want to go back in to help Ma and real soon, and of this I'm sure.) ~  ~ To set the table for dinner, and fold, a small lot of the laundry, it is my honest hope this time while I play and roll and jump around on the ground some for a moment with my two teenage children and our little Jamie, our young one, and feed my tiger fish and then do some of the rest of my chores, and so I have found through God and through the sweet nature and e'er-gentle heart beating well within Him. ~  ~ It is to be mine, this! my greatest fortune! ~  ~ To have a happy home now and the better part of my fancy set free. For so beset and living in the honest way-beside-me ... . By one! The tenderness given to me through the nature of His perfect goodness, perfect Grace. ~  ~ Gods' love has finally found me, but still wandering, will I always be! Down along that leafy road. Perusing along, out amid the mighty structures of the spruces with Jamie and the honey humble bumble bee, bumbling on by beside me, and never will I forget these. ~  ~ As back when as to cast them... I set my thoughts of this day with my family and with him... Aloof the songs of the wind while in love I ran about and chasing them with the many little jumpy grasshoppers. (Always ever ginger in their joy!) ~  ~ As they carried in their way for me, and within their spirited hands. My hope of this day! One I have found with them, and in view of God and in the ever perfect way, ( of all of this, (His natural beauty!)) ~  ~ Yes Jamie could be seen, and as God is the one who has granted me this time to be alone with him. ~


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Last Will and Testament

When I’m gone, let me be.
Please don’t cry, don’t shed tears
I don’t want to make you sad
When you remember me
Just smile. Remember the good times.
Try to focus on all the laughter.
Drink one or two for me. Raise your glass high.
I don’t want a somber occasion full of tears.
I want a celebration with good food, good drink and good memories.
My legacy will be how I lived for each moment 
and treated each day as the blessing it was.
Live that way too. Honor my memory by living to the fullest.
Don’t be afraid. Don’t fret about tomorrow. Don’t cry.
Just live. Live until you die. 
Death is not frightening at all. It will happen to each of us 
as inevitably as the sun setting at dusk.
An unlived life however  is absolutely terrifying and 
completely unnecessary.
Don’t waste time looking back with regret 
or spend it worrying about the future with anxiety.
Live your life in the now. 
Do your best. Give all you can.
And when your time comes, there will be no regrets. 
Don’t cry for what might have been. Smile for what was.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Morning

Morning is but the infant day
Born of the womb of time. 
A babe that speaks to those that hear
A language so sublime. 

The sky with blood from birth is stained
Foretells of coming rain. 
Red sky at night is his delight
At dawn a sad refrain. 

That sailor in that ship at sea
That farmer by the brook
They know the signs, they read the sky
Like you or I a book. 

While wet or dry this day shall be
Both yours and mine to keep. 
Until it's hours reach 24
And then it too shall sleep. 

Why gaze we then at painted sky
And dwell upon this thought?
Let's merrily go forth and live 
This day that time has wrought


Details | Prose Poetry | |

When time began

Try to imagine our world without time
A timeless world that festers and rots;
But if some change no matter how brief
Could change this world and make a difference.
The “now” would be different than “before”
Indicative of the passing of time.
Thus time and change are related events
Because passing of time depends on change.
In our real world changes have never ceased
Some happen repeatedly some just once:
The breaking of waves against the seashore;
Or it’s a particular falling leaf.
When we first counted repeated changes
It was only then, friend, when time began.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

~ Poem the 1st Chap. Inspired Bye ~ Part #25

~ I reckon for a time... Amid the certain proving breezes of the moment, and underneath this ever pleasant emotion of His love given to both my wife and children and to me, and amid the shade of my porch roof, and in view of the wandering sky's. ~  ~ For awhile I'll stay, and plant my but down right here and sit outside for a spell... Amid His judicious graces and in view of the many tendering wooding leaf, and many effervescent, flower bloom, and take this time and a sharpened hand in this very simple pleasure as well and remain right here. ~  ~ On this porch quietly dreaming of him! `  ~ Yes for my new child, in my easy chair. Rocking amid this simple wood... For an honest hour with Him... ~ ~ (Yes for a quiet while.) Mmid the wonder of this glorious season, whittling my stick. ~  ~ For I reckon real soon, this time alone with Him, well it'll be all gone, but it'll be all mine and a brighter hope for another time! ~  ~ Yes a brighter hope for My family, and for me ... . another time. On another day with God. I reckon!    ~ ~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~ ~ ~ Benignity.  What is benignity?  So defined-for-me-myself!  For me it is my zest I-know now for God and life today,  my family. If it is all I can do to cherish these things. Friend  I will! I tell you I've already won! Baby's laughter reminds me ... .  Our Oreo cookie-looking-kitten named-pounce, playing in-the- rain. How-everything from-birth has-remained so-curious to-him.  His resilience as his sister just passed, yesterday. As he lye there with her saying goodbye. So-I-feel God-brings us to this-beauty/ goodness, when-willing, everyday. Though even-we-do,  or do-not-pray. His-arethese-things-benignity ... !     ~~~~~~~~~~~~  ~ e v e r y o n e 1 ~  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Unravel

Mystical and enchanting, feel the leaves fall in rhythm to the ground as they follow your
trail. You walk to enjoy the scenery that is still life; living immobile elders that blow
their thoughts of a time where everything seemed quiet. Hushed is the ground every time you
step on it; not even the branches that withered off are hard enough to make a sound. Trees
reach out their fingered covered arms, like little children wondering how you feel upon
their waken leaves to gather your different textures of skin. Spots of light go through the
parts of uncovered shade; highlighting the patch of dirt, that was to harsh to let
anything grow, the fallen leaf that still cries out to his brothers, even though his yells
are slowly diminishing. And most untainted to be shown, is the butterfly resting on the
flower. Brighten to be shown as a marvel, the sun beams on it as if it were to say; do not
miss this! Gently you sit to not utter the untouched peace that is this moment. Wings that
are opening and closing in a hypnotizing way, letting you gaze at their colors and hues.
You sit there enjoying this everyday missed sensation from your concrete home, for here
there is so many living being in one gathered place; some are too tiny, some are in hiding
and some are watching without you knowing or their race. You sit here, cause here you can
unravel and not be replaced.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sublime

Sublime
~~~~~~~
Sublime is a word which can easily confuse
For the grasp of its meaning transitory like a mood
Imperceptible, but a fleeting thought
Goods and services, sold or bought
Travel swiftly with the pack
Abstract expression white, gray, black
From forefront to rear anger, greed, and fear
The goal forever lies ahead, just you keep on running
Preconceptions, loss of time guile, wit, and cunning
Linear is how we perceive the world and limit our endless minds
Must we fall time and time again, clarity, wisdom oh so sublime.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Waiting no more

Waiting no more
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I believe we have a destiny
Possibly shared only time will tell
This attraction is oh so strong
As I fall into your arms
So entranced by your smiles
In your soul I feel safe and warm
During the time were apart
I can feel you so near to me
You're the beating of my very heart
It's ordained that I would love you
You must simply accept
What we both knew from the start
Your feelings are growing each day 
It's apparent by your beautiful smile
I've been waiting for a woman like you 
All my life and longer
And it's surely been worth the while.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Departure in Contrary Directions

I've made a home time and time again,
with what seems like effortless motion.
When it's over, I'm avoid sifting through
abandoned damage, just leave it  to sit
in a space I can no longer be.
I've never given concern of money to this home.
I must have the mind set of a crazed militant.
Willing to take the pain and the pain and the pain...again.
To get what is sought after,
for what feels right, for what will work in the end.
Without this contrary situation
I become a survivor of what has passed...
The soul that never wants to see or live
through given situation again.
unless the opportunity presents itself again
in a time given that you still have the strength
to fight and fight as hard as you did
all the same all over again.
Until, steadily and rightfully a path is built back to
the place of peace and meaning.
The place that was needed and wanted,
because you fought to be there.
The place that haunts every soul
until they finally arrive and in some cases, re arrive.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Renaissance

Some people associate October with gloomy fogs and storms,
Calm suns seem much lower than the summer it makes eyes smart,
The autumn winds up his harvesting, and the out side pleasures,
We stand and watch with some sorrow as the last swallows leave.

In gardens, on darker evenings, are red glows of the autumn fires,
A haunting time we are bewitched by the smell of burning leaves,
The fires dwindle, there are glittering stars in the frosty skies,
Under those frosty skies an autumn breeze sighs around the eaves,

It is a time in which to walk during the shorter but brighter hours,
Dressing warmly, enjoy the tranquil splendor of a fresh greenness,
Time to be thankful for the good and the beauty of a summer gone,
Spring will soon return and the renaissance will be a glory to behold.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fire of Desire

Fire of Desire
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Held as a willing captive to my erotic desires, there are no boundaries that either you or I 
set or require
Through out the seemingly endless night I sate my olympian desire held in check for so long 
until now
I apologize as you learn that sometime what sleeps is for reasons good and yet pain and 
pleasure mingles 
As you wantonly submit yourself in all ways to my needs such a tender and long chaste 
woman's willing flesh
Mere minutes before the morning comes you leave me so very reluctantly as the knowledge 
Of the forbidden passions unleashed by my touch and the burning yearning chasm awakened 
By my gentle precise kiss is now a thing for which you will crave eternally
Understand one thing, what transpired between you and I was far from pure yet so very 
natural 
Even more so it was carnal and primal, the animal instinct will now and always burn 
For my touch like a fire deep inside you longing into the sleepless night
I stop you from making promises and rash decisions after you have learned firsthand 
That the whispers of my gift and the status of my love tools were not even remotely 
exaggerated
You and I both had a destined desire from the first time our eyes danced in the dim dining 
rooms light
And you already know that I am not to be possessed, only briefly tasted 
So return to the comfort and security you chose long before you ever saw me 
He's at home and he knows that I am now and forever your blessing and curse 
For you will many times tell the tale as the chosen few have before you 
About the time you made love to me as you say; No it's not a lie it really happened 
Ask him he'll tell you, and no he's not an icon, just a man larger than life and powerful 
Beautiful is how he made me feel, he lit this fire inside me 
And it burns so bright and deeply into the night.


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 | |

Thoughts

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

5 Minutes Of Clarity And A Single Moment Of Serenity

The sun is shining
Its a beautiful day
Sometimes I have to pray
For the sun to shine on me
Instead of the shade
For darkness loves to cover the heart
Seems like i can't get a headstand
Pride greed and fear
Is were i started to steer
Family friends and goals
Are thrown in the holes
Lost in the distance of who i can't be
Memories i can't allow myself to see
It seems every time i try to stand
There is never a helping hand
For the true ones i had to hold
Turned their backs when i sold my soul
For the destructive path that i now lead
I'm the one who sowed that volatile seed
For this life of pain and misery
I'm a blind man who can't see
The sun shining down on me
For the shade has to stay
Until the day i have the strength to pray
A single string of hope
That i can never see
A fearful past
That i had to lead
5 minutes of clarity
And a moment of serenity
For every second at least one heart seeks
In this world of fear and greed
To be the person they want to be
For no one wants to experience this pain of treachery
The bleeding hearts and the lost souls
All had an obtainable goal
Threw away or taken people don't know
But human judgment is always bestowed
On the liars beggars cheats and thieves
Understand, you can not with out experiencing the deed
The power of choice is what we've been given
Hope, Enlightenment, Love And Peace stay hidden
For the key i hold unlocks this mystery
This mystery of H.E.L.P.
And then the shade of darkness shall go away
The sun shall now forever stay
Enclosed in this box threw the distance of time and space
I shall forever be hidden from the pain of my insecurities
5 minutes of clarity
And a single moment of serenity
Is what i shall have, Finally


Details | Prose Poetry | |

You and I

You and I

I spend precious time with you in loving intimacy in my mind  
This will last me a lifetime, it must you will never be mine
Such a sweet sensation I feel and I will hold it so deep inside 
Thank you my love for giving me so much in such a short time 
You need to know this now and I give my eternal gratitude
In your arms I imagine that the past does not exist 
And we were born in the instant that we first met
In life I have loved many times finding sweet new emotions
Unforgettable memories etched deep inside my soul
And some I can’t ever or will choose never to forget
Both the happiness and the hurtful lies
Your love became an eraser that helped to break the ties
A door closed behind when you walked into my life
And I abandoned the illusion that held sway in my heart
Some say distance is a way to forget
Until I met you this I did not understand
After I experienced your touch I had no real choice at all
I will always and forever be a slave to your love
Caring so much for you my beautiful lady know this
I will wait even knowing that your ship will soon depart
To cross other seas, I still need you to know that I love you
I miss you deeply like I see the nights without stars
Even more so I miss you in the lonely beautiful mornings
I desire being safe in your arms and it seems to make me feel sick
Whenever I laugh I miss you and even more so when I cry 
While walking in the sunshine it's dark and too cold
In those nights when I cannot sleep because you aren’t near  
You truly can't imagine how empty it feels
Still I am yet alive despite it all so should I lie? 
I can’t I really miss you my love.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Velvet Princess

My Velvet Princess

As I dry these tears unbidden such a sad anniversary again claims my existence 
She’s gone; the light of my heart and song of my now desolate soul transcended to a place 
beyond my grasp and still a fledgling of right suffers an endless longing
I see no truth in that time can heal all wounds for surely this one will prove to be mortal 
I persist on this coil through my stubbornness and the will of my creator, not by choice 
My most feverent desire is to hear a laugh and see a smile that is meant only for me
Riding a hollow and worthless crescendo of success, achievement, and empty joy 
Illusion breaks a lot more to the skilled adept, so still I keep my misery to me, myself, and I 
In our time together I was mostly a simpleton jester and fool, never callous but bratty and 
overly protective 
So many; too many things left unsaid in the letters my heart never had the chance to send 
Although I’m sure she knew my one desire was always to please her and how much I truly 
cared
Two of a kind, a princess and the scoundrel like peaches with cream so much love apparent 
and shared, now the wisp of a waking dream
So now I stand alone after tasting the sweetness of bliss, one with all and yet none
The only thing she ever showed me was love and sometimes it was tough, made Sang mad 
quite a few times and once or twice I even cried
Then out of the blue on a sunny clear day she fell ill stopped breathing and died; I think a 
part of me with her
So now my princess is an angel that watches and protects me from a place I feel so close 
and yet so far
A past love yet lingers on in the absence of a present, even if in this life I never know love 
again the joy we shared meant the world to me and more
And in time through space I will someday again behold the better half of my soul 
I shed today the occasional tear and smile every time she graces my thoughts in a song with 
no end composed of an infinite love by my angel, my velvet princess.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

TwentyFabelTwo

TwentyFabelTwo
CharlexesFabels
JIMBEAN Whiskey
The eye decided on a love sonata or an enchilada of a fable made in love.
Eye have a girl she rocks my world she makes me think of beans and things she 
loves so fine she listens so well she does it all the live in tells me what is means 
to love and eye will answer ewe with this tell me what is means to live with 
someone has a love inside a heart and eye depart for worlds unknown when my 
babay calls me on the internet eye positively moan in some sort of whimper that 
she must never here for she will love too much and mabe even disappear. If she 
could see the purple ecstasy my gragon wings leave upon the scars of a 
forgotten past she could not last another day. Someday we will kiss and help me 
then for let me not get much too elder than eye am now for the old man that eye 
become wants to kisss his love and never stop. Someday comes in the movies 
there is love. Most people show out showing out is fine when one is young but 
there is time when a man gets too old to show out much. The weight begins to 
sag and the hanging gardens of Babylon become the south of Franco buttered in 
rum and left in cold too long. Later comes to me most every night most every time 
eye love. Myopia is a universe of ewe.
AS eye am loving ewe eye am loving myself amid the fantasies of youth the 
vagarities of aged mage as the wonderful heart she it is that loves me gives to 
this myself me and eye and all of mee eye cry if left too long upon the shelf 
please add mee to your mix for love is meant to be taken in self graduated doses 
earning kisses we imagine the hearts so kept in tune.
My love is enchilada and love sonata so hotta for mye ewe.
Ewe oph please drink JIMBEAN whiskey make coffee in a plastic jug and learn to 
drink it cold. Hold both hands and kiss them melt the CharlaX meet the man reap 
the love be mye ewe keep the heart what would life be without the love.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Two Sisters

On a mild summer day,
on a hill lush and green,
two tired sisters relaxed 
and enjoyed the country scene.

A mild breeze was blowing that
cooled their skin from the hot sun,
the sky was a brighter blue
from when the day had first begun.

Their morning chores were finished 
and it was their favorite time of day,
they would rest by a stream up there 
and let it take their cares away.

This was a present from God 
a time for him to show them his love,
they could marvel at his creation 
as he watched them from above.

Two sisters, a day of bonding
and being of one accord,
a precious time, a special time
between them and the Lord.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

As Per How The Days Go By

On a block note---‘tis cheaper, 
or perhaps, on a computer screen
I will lay my emotions 
and classify them in poetic forms.

Sonnet for the heart,
free-verse for the mind,
lyrics for the body,
rhyme for the soul.

When I’ll be writing sonnet, 
I’ll be in the back porch 
where I can seat, calmly, 
and watch the roses bloom.

When I’ll be writing free-verse, 
I’ll be in my study room,
where I can dawdle over time as I’d love to,
letting it flows, like I used to do. 

When I’ll be writing lyrics, 
I’ll be under the shady mango tree
where I can hear the noon psalms 
of cheerful warblers. 

When I’ll rhyme, 
I’ll be on my throne, longing...
for the sensual night 
to rest and kiss me to sleep. 

Later, I’ll review the forms, which by then 
are completely unveiled: the heart bloomed,
the mind no longer worried, the body calmed,
and so as the soul in a peaceful wind dance.

All these will be, 
encoded, in my diary, tinged
with sadness and happiness--- 
as per how the days go by.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Corner-Stoned

Bowing down for this subtle borrow in trade, 
My head just pounds with an ache just throbbing away.
My thoughts gathered and crunched with a million bits and pieces of the obvious.
But lots of unnoticed empty space!
You are there and I am here. 

Calculating, analyzing and specifying such fine details that are completely misplaced.
Never bending and never-ending our minds spin wheels like bulked bails of rolling hay.
If I shouldn’t, then I couldn’t, and if I couldn’t, then I wouldn’t.
But I’d never say that I didn’t outrun that race.
Angled in time leaning straight forward with those hands turning mine,

I’m catching up to our dawning of today.
The Sun has risen above our dark blanketed night.
Taking the shadows that linger with my soul’s final debate,
The Moon stands corner-stoned guarding glares that glow over darkness,
Veiling off your sights that radiate!
You say this and I say that.
But a compromise is far from this archer’s perfect aim targeting at my hindsight.

You’re always right, 
But so am I justifying boundaries to your realistic reasoning for my analyzed why.
Following you, following me,
We are all that we will ever be.
My night becomes the next day and your day becomes the next night.
Like spinning merciless on a merry-go-round,
My own mind has to question the who, what, and where am I.
Challenged by my own self-defeat, 
I’m corner-stoned with so many of those that have lost to a forgotten lie.
Defeated by my own self-lack to compete, 
You’re corner-stoned with so many years of albeit, 
So I’ll defy and you justify!

® Registered: Ann Rich   2002


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Thoughts, Comments

From a sleepy mind, unable to sleep...
These words I do feel deep...
The Soup has become my
number one family
One I spend my time with great joy,
I hope I don't too often annoy...
But that's what ya get,
When ya read a dumb goy...

Seriously (or as close as I can get)- to Christy- I am so glad you love the Shivaree 
song- it was on the ending soundtrack to Kill Bill II.  I first heard of it on a great 
NYC college radio station, WFUV, from Fordham University...I was driving when I 
first heard it, and nearly crashed!  I was awestruck, and haunted...I ordered the 
CD from Amazon (you can get anything there!)...and have heard it many times.  I 
have not been able to "get into" most of the other songs, because if you put a 
Picasso next to the Mona Lisa, you can't really judge.  I have trouble lately getting 
a continuous clean video (on You Tube, same as you)- and hope there is a video 
available from Amazon, but haven't checked it out yet.  
To my precious Shar, you are so sweet, and easily the most popular poet on the 
soup (well deserved)- I often get so wrapped up in writing, I have to train myself 
to read more- And I've been trying...ever amazed by the talent I read, there is not 
enough time in the day...and the reading is so pleasureable, it ought to be taxed!
(oops, none of us want that, it was a pun..."Monty Python"...the parrot sketch),
what a joy to have this great library to enjoy for years to come...And Christy, why'd 
ya' send the racoon here?- He just left and I had to join "The Racoon Club" to get 
him to go...Ya'll great, and I still got an hour or three left in me...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Winter of our lives

In the winter of our lives, as we are lain to our final rest
We rest with generations from long ago
As time goes on and it comes to the day
That Christ returns, we will rise up to meet Him
With generations of past, meeting those of present
What a glorious day that will be!

Can you imagine? The skies filled with His glory …
The earth witnessing His majestic power …
As angels … and the children of God, 
Sing in loud jubilation ... loud jubilation!
Of Christ Jesus’ return.
All of heaven sings out His name!

I fear not the winter season of my life
With great anticipation of the joy to come
I long for that day, to see His face …
To stand in His presence … to reign with Him
FOREVER in my Father’s house!
Until that time arrives, I live my life for Him!
Today and always until my time of rest.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

As Time Comes and Goes



I can honestly say that I have loved,
and lived on the edge of the world.
Shared from my shore to yours all
my emotions from inside.

But as time comes and goes,
so do the people that pass .
I was looking for an open embrace,
a soft gentle smile when I saw your
face.

Searching the world’s depths for a love so right,
one I could reach for and know all would finally
be alright.
But sometimes life is cruel and fate takes the
upper hand to rule.

As time comes and goes so, have my feelings
for you I hold dear wishing you could be near.
Knowing those shores are simply shores.
They border the distance between us.

I have no magic bridge to draw nor a
path that can reach you tonight.
Time only remains to remind me of the
distance that will always remain between you and me.

I cannot set sail upon the deep blue sea.
For the time moves on and it passes
swift with each rolling wave.
Nevertheless, I can always say I have honestly
loved you with an undying love.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Fictitious Poet

At the corner of the room, where only kerosene lamp’s light glows, 
head slightly bent over the ancient narra table, a man, divorced, sits

in solitude, in front of him his grandpa’s gold pen and a block note---
of winter hues. And, in the aroma of a beautiful life, he, too, believes 

without doubt he could have written it, his own life, with great love and 
glamour when he had the chance. Surely, he sees his ala M. Twain’s  

beard silver-grayed and touches it, for awhile. Yet for him, it seems he 
was not that old, he feels the strength, of handsome Adonis---the youth, 

like the olden years, rhyming fast in a fleeting time of his last days. He 
thinks of himself, how his alter ego hurt him in many ways, not abiding

in his own older blood, who once chided him and said: “Oh believe me, 
my son, you can not write your life of today tomorrow, you better start 

now!” The time lost, smiling back at him, in mirthful caution that makes
him not to dawdle over star wars---vodka with coke, his favorite drink, 

as he consumes the scented roll, puffing, the fumes---in delicate rings, 
whilst his eyes glued, at his one line-sentence, penned in small letters: 

a fictitious poet. Alas, too many unforgiving wives calling get him drunk;
he, soon, falls asleep, his face leaning on the narra table. Smoke, gone. 
      




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.