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Prose Poetry Time Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Time

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In another time

They say: " Fate is out of your control and destiny is what you are meant to do." I guess, some things in life are not meant to be, but then why would fate bring two people together when it is not their destiny. Circumstances in life can mean two hearts with a powerful spiritual connection cannot meet, because of the obstacles of distance. What use is a bee if it cannot produce nectar, what use is a tree if it cannot produce oxygen and what use is love if two beloveds cannot unite. Their frustrations burn with the agony of not knowing, torn between the emotions of the heart and the ego of the mind. Love is invisible, you do not see it, only feel it. It is an intangible phenomenon that everyone will experience in their life time. The touch, voice and sight of the beloved is like no other. To feel the breath of a loved one upon your face, to gaze into their eyes, to kiss their lips and to merge, drowning in an ocean of passion are fundamentals of love, so many take for granted. Whilst those apart can only dream of such pleasures. Someone once said: "Life is a balance of holding on and letting go." A heart cannot spend years in the wilderness and a human needs physical contact. Do you listen to your heart and keep the hope or do you succumb to your mind and walk away. Love never dies and you never stop loving someone. Sometimes in life you may have to settle for second best. Maybe in another place and in another time - she would have been mine...
21 July 2016 Simple musings, fictional poem for contest. (written in ten mins) In Another Time - Poetry Contest by Ir0nic ZiNk

Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2016

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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.



Copyright © JeanMarie Marchese | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Time Elapsed

All those years flew away 
for nothing.
Then of course the headaches 
started when weeping constantly
at the unfairness of my marriage.
You need to know that I didn't 
love him but I cherish the family 
we've created, you, my children 
are the center of my life.

My hardships coping with 
my authoritarian husband
drove us apart.
I started drifting away to 
avoid being at his mercy .

I couldn't help myself to 
get around those roadblocks 
that at the time deprived me
 from walking through
 a new path of change. 
I was stalling even in my silence, 
aware of all the deceptions 
that had come to characterize
 my life.

I had learned the hard way 
to stay calm and pretend 
that I didn't sense what was
happening to me,
and let time do its magic.
I wore this mask for so long 
I didn't feel safe without it
 exposing my true identity,
 it had to remain hidden .

I stopped blaming myself 
as I was able to survive 
my pain over the years.
Time has elapsed and done
 everything to diminish 
my anxiety and eventually
allow my soul to heal.
I cannot tolerate seeing 
myself weep anymore.

I started genuinely enjoying 
every thought that passed by, 
ready to feed myself with knowing
I would not repeat the same mistakes.
I ended up riding this roller coaster
of emotions feeling everything.
I was able to survive the pain
 when I was at the bottomless 
despair.

My walks alone under the 
blazing stars,
imagining and wishing I would 
never see him again, 
craving my marriage 
to become a memory .

I started feeling that I found 
my silence smoothed my inner anger, 
my passion has been real despite 
my original skepticism.

Walking towards my cottage 
I knew there'd been 
a reason for it.
Somehow though the wilderness 
enhanced the beauty around my 
cottage garden, 
the clouds were getting thicker 
and darker,
running inside towards 
my refuge, 
I realized that I liked being 
in control of my own life.
      At Last.

Therese Bacha
13 October 2014

Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2014

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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.


Copyright © Wendy Meyer | Year Posted 2013

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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.

Copyright © Wendell Brown | Year Posted 2013

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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.

Copyright © Marycile Beer | Year Posted 2007

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The Absence of Time

In the dead of night I can feel the weight of you brush past
Whispering words, feel the breath so close to my skin
And I want to reach out but know you don’t want to be touched
I sit silent, listening… Absorbing your every word
In a catalog indexed in my heart, organized by the weight of it
I would build bookshelves to the moon if it means I get to listen
For just a moment I can see past and catch a glimpse of wonderment
I want to be someone who reminds you how it is to be loved
I am content to play chess sitting in this garden I careful tend
Even if the moves take a day or weeks… even years at your pace
The rain barrels will fill and the blooms can feed us for eons
There is a lit flame within you whose warmth has not gone out
And who’s light shines through your tightly clenched fists
Even your haunting silence speaks volumes to the awakened
There isn’t a clock on my wall that can tell the time
Just the gentle movement of the patience
I’ve suddenly found within myself
When there is something bigger out there
That I have only begun to understand

Copyright © Countess Arditezza | Year Posted 2015

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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

Copyright © Joshua Akinwande | Year Posted 2011

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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"?

Copyright © Marianne Nolido | Year Posted 2011

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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

Copyright © Jessica Kuilan | Year Posted 2012

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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.

Copyright © Stan Bradford | Year Posted 2007

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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... 

Copyright © Celeste Butler-Mendez | Year Posted 2009

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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.



Copyright © JeanMarie Marchese | Year Posted 2007

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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

Copyright © CJ Krieger | Year Posted 2011

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.

Copyright © Patrick Ronan | Year Posted 2007

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Kingdom By the Bay

We
bound
down the stairs
and into the light of day

Into the blue
of the misty breezes
where the scent
of sea salt roses lay
and grow in perfusion
along the winding road
that lifts and dips
to the other side
of the Funday Bay
to cross the bridge
and rise again
to run away
over the distant hills-

Seagulls-
screech and glide
high above the ocean spray
that falls in a mist
on the rocks
of the lower banks
behind our house
where-
we run like the wind
through the fields
of fresh cut hay
as we make our way
to the rocky mantle -

There-

on that volcanic plateau
worn smooth as glass
by the rolling waves
we play-
In A pool made
when the centre
of the earth
erupted
millennia ago

There-
in that salty water
warmed by a blazing sun
with crabs
and periwinkles-
our ears filled
with the sound
of the ocean’s drum
as it leaves
with the tide below-

We drift away-

Two little kids-
King and Queen
for a day-
In our kingdom
By the Bay

Author:  Elaine George

Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2008

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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.

Copyright © Spenser Jones | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dancing Through Poetic Treasons

Language,
like evolution and poetry,
dynamic verbs,
function through co-arising root systems,
nouns for action and reaction,
co-arising preactive Ego-faith perpetuating,
dipolar reiterating
seasonal-sequential eco-health
regeneratively prime relational 
DNA-RealTime = RNA-LoveCoArisingNow function.

Systems are dynamic ecoverbs,
to function systematically, reasonably, with pattern, is why "system"
ecosystemologically includes biosystemologic,
polyculturally polymorphic transregenerated 
as fractal-balancing ecological health-systemic.
You know, ionic and iconic dynamic transcripts
of mythic-logical 4D WinWin CoOperative Teleology,
like RNA-Elders, 
confluent with us DNA-wanna-play-nice
with Gaia's Earth Rights of Birth-thru-Death-thru-ReBirth 
optimal regenerative co-arising birth-canal passage
through Great Transitional Events and Moments,
as well as BusinessAsUsual Evolutionary 
slow-growth CoOperative Economics.

Culture likes each liveNOWlove,
both before taken over by anger
and after co-prehending fear of dualdark pasts,
notnot regeneration,
kosmic codex health recreationing prime-fractal-formed
Fullerian-bicameral-knotted mindbody. 
Nature becoming nurture-being
ecoself-perpetuating bilateral Time 
positive/negative feedback-fold dipolar loop hypothesis, 
ongoing through Time's bilateral co-gravitational 
nutrient string 
back and forth toward (0) ecoEarthTribe-centric 
dialogical political and economic EcoCreation PolyStory,
global cooperative health and safety language,
ego-nouns for ecobiosystemic balancing verbs.
EarthTribe organic members long to exegete 
Yin's RightLeft Balancing Exegenesis,
generate-elational,
agapic-erotic nondual dynamite,
revolution thru great transitions,
as Wisdom muses thru great literature.

As is love, synonymous with synergy, Fullerian-fractal.
Loves, with their hates, are lives
are dynamic Ego-discontinuous verbal ecosystems,
with their own lovely and angry and fearful births and deaths,
their own childhoods,
and adolescent full-bodied spring,
and sometimes mature autumnal wisdom
follows diastolic-dialectic ecologosing younger adulthood
of bicameral polyenculturation,
spreading viral love verbs
far and wide,
now going cooperative networked on-line.

Love functions synergetic-integral-unitarian dynamically,
what beloved longs for
as does belonging recall,
for longing is only able to see
the reverse face of love already nouned,
already known, remembered, labeled,
reconnecting belonging
with exegeting
regenerating viral-vital-vive-live with notnot-live systems of degeneration
dynamites of cooperatively regenerate synergy,
integral integrity absorbing competition's age of LeftDominant suffering,
unitarian universality of ecovalue 
nutrient enriched polycultural guilds of ecotruths,
viral ecocomprehension
bicamerally balancing life-function as love renouned.

Poetry,
like evolution of language,
draws in and out dynamic verbs,
functioning with co-arising ecoRNAroot systems,
nouns for action and reaction,
preaction and self-implicating embryo
children of Ancient SunGod-ReGenerative Productive Branch-Yang-Worshipers
thereby feeding all those YinYin
WinWin
notnot double-temporal bound
fornicating feminist RightBrain dominant 
forested root systems 
of eco-neural-fractal evolutionary-thru-revolutionary 
ecosystemic cooperative 
economic as political compost-fertile dynamite.

Or, perhaps that was Wisdom Literature.
I reiteratively interchange those paradigms.
I wonder why I am not alone in that,
in here,
as also there,
as now
is also notnot yet politically begun economically,
where my bicameral Left mind ends up
is where our Right-Balanced bilateral BodyElders began,
eco square-rooted
in binomial balanced ego/eco Earth's RealTime Prime
nutrient value regenerating co-arising Integral-Unitarian
Health-Integrity 
Synergetic Commons,
Polyculturing Outcome Integrity.

AnthroMythos creation-story-re-ligions EarthTribal Iconic Logos,
Gaia Goddess of EcoJustice, Rain, Water, Earth, Regenerate Fertility, etc.
we do our poli-economic hoky-poky,
as we turn our Earth-nest around,
upside down,
where BlueHeaven still moon lights GreenEarth
in full double-negative temporal-bilateral fractals
of energetic frequency and healthy compost-function.

Poetry,
like Wisdom Literature,
great nutritional ecotherapeutic reading for insomniacs,
but be careful of which nutrient-choices you make,
whether reading or writing
some are healthier than others.
Polycultural diversity is usually our self-optimizing choice,
more permaculturally tested and researched for full-octave balancing harmony,
full-color witnessed and time regenerated,
loved and metasystemically synergized
as nature rhymes with nurture
and reason rhymes with season
and Bucky rhymes with Lucky 
Plan ZeroCentric B/A Resonance.

Revolutionary Dynamics,
like evolution as ego/ecosystemic bilateral balance
of mythic poetic Timing, 
logos-muse of CoPresent Diastatic Now,
stepping firmly
in our dance following past and hunting future Earth-nativity.



Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

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.

Copyright © Marycile Beer | Year Posted 2008

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

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2010

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)

Copyright © Anna Lo | Year Posted 2012

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. 

Copyright © A Rambling Righting Riley - Shauna Riley | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

If Time is Money

Does your money derive from health-regenerative investments?

Well, what could that mean?

Do you make your money, honey, 
with both light and dark co-arising memory
of midway love and peace intent,
avoiding anger-fear monoculturally competitive
dominant-power relationships,
and struggles against others,
against Earth,
choosing to struggle with cognitive-affective
chronic neural-temporal dissonance,
indicators of imbalance issues,
and opportunities for more polyculturally nutritious
sensory-neural-nutritional
regeneratively-integrally-intended 
ecosystemic polyculturing health-trend outcomes?

Is that your elevator speech, or Pledge of Allegiance to ReGenerative Health?

I thought it was a question that assumed
you don't like elevator pitches 
for more money being removed from your pocket,
whether asking or being asked,
don't matter,
bad timing to invest in one elevator ride.

Try it again,
what is this regenerative health investment
you think we both have in mind and body?

Is your time and money invested
in this cooperative stream of Earth's regenerate evolution,
co-arising revolution of transition crisis times
as ecoconscious bilateral,
and, by the way, 
therefore evolving-emergent as bicameral-neural,
light of logos fractal-ecologic?

I most certainly hope not!!!
That sounds much too grand for EgoMe.

But, your most active stage of hope,
the one more important than all those that could possibly follow,
is now,
this moment,
is always the permaculturist's nutritional Zero-Centric Zone of Ego/Eco
regenerative development and focus.

Before you in each relationship and transaction,
political and economic,
two primal principles of cooperative economic investment,
possibly of interest to philanthropic,
and religious,
and large-scale public economic/political health-culture research investors,
but most certainly of interest to EgoYou.

Such a sweeping scale of regenerativity.
Are you sure you can deliver such rich fertility
with my money?
Where are your outcomes of such vast healthy wealth?

You need not search this mindbody proposal
to see if I am community invested,
if time and life are money-valued commodities,
my money and health and regenerative potential
for sale or rent,
in exchange for what quality of money,
what source of health investment
absorbing dualdark angry-past pathology?

This proposal comes to you
through deep-nested communities
of co-cultural time as light investment.

What are your layers of cooperative political
and economic investment,
where lie these mutually-subsidiary networks?

My communities are interdependent communicators,
co-empathic autonomic
rich paradigmatic intent and permacultural practice.

Are your health outcomes of potential interest
only to our human tribe,
or is there a cooperative DNA/RNA synergy 
demonstrated in your proposal design,
budget,
and/or installation-investment plan?

Which cooperative investment communities appear
as higher risk potential divestors
due to internal monoculturally-dominant
political and economic assumptions? 

How do you propose to avoid Business As Usual 
anthrocentric-normative trends?

Who do you propose will hope and plan to do business with you,
and how,
through mutual barter, and/or cooperation?
And who intends to continue doing business competitively,
without you? And why?

Who do you hope and plan to invest in
and not invest in,
to achieve healthy helpful outcomes,
and what and how,
whether barter, competition, or cooperative absorption
into our Help As Health Bank?

Your proposal outcomes,
for each moment and day and year,
like your own embryonic Ego life,
should demonstrate early investors,
how you will optimize  polyculturally inclusive outcomes
of equitable harmony,
especially if you are not beginning
with a clearly articulated 
and balanced 
health-regenerative theory
root-systemic base
to compost rich fertile health-enculturation.

I will consider your proposals
each and every moment of each day and night
of mutual ecoconsciousness,
asking where does this proposal fit best 
within our cooperative health-as-help portfolio
with other potential investments at this time,
and/or
to consider in light of prior 
and still ongoing 
cooperative-healthguild investments,
and their comparative health v. pathology outcomes
for future regeneration
of Earth's polyculturing Time.

Please be sure any investment opportunities
explicitly measure future polycultural sensory-health 
against current comparatively monocultural,
over-competitive economic and political status-quo risks,
not only within your Nature-Investment Program Outcomes
but also how nutritional results
will be winnowed and seed-selected,
decomposed to enrich
your own future regenerative Interior Landscape,
your health lives of love
with your original and ongoing cooperators,
yourselves in aligning/maligning relation with others.

Perfect, all here and accounted for.
So, how are you investing and divesting
as our
"Cooperative Help As Health Bank"
ecological economic and political health
permacultural proposal
within your own time as money investment portfolio?








Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

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





Copyright © michael hornschuch | Year Posted 2011

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

Copyright © Perry Campanella | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

One Day at a Time

When I was young the stress clouds were more reliable, they came and went just like the light of day and the dark of night. As I got older, the stress clouds became more obstinate, seemed more serious, and stayed in my head as permanent residents. Then one day the clouds stopped moving. The dark foreboding clouds just sat there putting pressure on my body like an unattended pot of boiling water. That’s when I got the first message. One of the dark clouds spoke to me in my sleep and said, get your act together; there’s a difference between family and things.

After that, the stress clouds started moving again, changing their position in my head depending on the time of day. The pot of boiling water calmed down and the things got fixed and faded away into the light of day. But the family stress clouds were different. They had more energy and talked to me every day in the language of dying and the language of struggling and the language of trying. The pot of water continued to bubble around the edges making a painful clamor within my spirit.

That’s when I got the second message.  It came from the bubbles and reminded me of an ensemble of singers. The music was warm and inviting and sounded like elegant thinking. Manage the stress clouds one day at a time they sang with an encouraging voice. Manage the stress clouds one day at a time.
 

Copyright © Howard Dion | Year Posted 2014

Details | Free verse | |

Your Time Has Come (Prose Poetry)

Your time has come like the rising sun.  Stand up for life created by God’s love as 
the dove descends from above.  He has a plan for you to be one with Him as He 
is with you thus making you brand new.  Your life should be more than just the 
ordinary existence, let Him strengthen you as your soul runs the distance.  Be 
filled with His spirit and let your light shine.  Manifest His joyful glory and 
overcome obstacles in His name while unto Him you render an acclaim.  Move 
ahead and be the lighthouse of strength without relenting; thus ascending from 
the bottomless pit into His eternal light of creation. Experience the fullness of 
your destiny with God in the middle of your future.  Build your foundation in His 
word and spirit.  Empower your soul with His tenacity; He will determine your 
capacity.  Be anointed by His grace and experience the reality of not just a 
dream.  A light lit for living liturgy. He has you covered with His Holy Spirit.  Now 
step out—your time has come!


Comments:  A prose poem is written in prose form.  It does not have line breaks 
or varying topography as a regular poem. During the mid-nineteenth century, 
Charles Baudelaire published Petis poemes en prose.  Oscar Wilde, T.S Eliot 
and others have written in this genre.   The genre started in France and is now 
worldwide.  The use of concrete language and figurative speech such as 
imagery, rhymes, personification, contrast, simile, metaphor, alliteration, 
metonymy, synecdoche, abstraction and the like should be incorporated based 
on the desire of the poet. The piece may focus on language, a story, or 
something similar based on the choice of the poet.


Copyright © Joseph Spence Sr | Year Posted 2007

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

Copyright © Marycile Beer | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Twist in Time

As I stand here in front of my closet , starring in to the space...
I wonder which black dress to choose, and how I am going to face..
All the guests that will be there , at your final resting place...
I look in the mirror and what do I see ?
But cuts and scratches all over me...
Although I don’t feel any physical pain...
Oh, what’s that I hear ?..could it be rain ?
I miss you already...what went wrong ?..
We were driving along just listening to our favorite song...
I remember the curve on that old mountain road...
And then heard the train crash... and then explode...
Time to go called out my Mother...
It was a cold November morning, and very heavy rain...
And I swear I heard the whistle of a train...
As I looked around I could see...
So many friends and family...
Standing in the crowd was Aunt Sarah and Uncle Fred...
OMG ! I thought they were dead...
And there’s dear old Michael...
I had heard he crashed his motorcycle...
All of a sudden I saw YOU stand...
With a bright red rose, you held in your hand...
What are you doing I wanted to shout...
But then I realized what you were about...
You dropped the rose upon MY grave...
It was then I realized You were the one that was saved...

Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

So Many Struggles, So Little Time

Why does sacrilegious
mean struggling against sacred religion
rather than struggling with re-ligioning divinity
as notnot dualling dividity?

How could prodigal sons and daughters
struggle against their prodigy potential,
yet not struggle with their prodigious potentiality?

When would a natural spirit
struggle against spirituality
rather than struggle with nondual spirited-correlational nature?

Which reminds me,
why does human nature
mean struggling against nature
rather than struggling with articulating integrative humane race
within and toward co-arising nature?

Where does contentiousness
suggest warring against contentment
rather than wrestling with nondual appositional content?

How did death economic reassurance
land on "life insurance"?

Who thought mental dis-ease
could not be compatible with mental health
emerging overdue internal conversations?

Why isn't anger management
more importantly love optimization development?

How could eco-normative cooperative evolutionary transactions
have become ecodislogical monochromatic competition
to store nutrients in safe deposit boxes
where they become detrimental risk of loss
with inevitably unsafe-able death?

If elation
predicts relations
predict correlations
then why not evolution
predicts revolution
predicts ecorevolutionary systems,
merging regenerative love of EarthTribe health?

If bilateral past-future time co-gravitates,
then why wouldn't bicameral love/anger Left
with dipolar symmetry/dualdark fear Right
eco-arise?

Why would a natural eco-spirit inductive-recessive
notnot nondually evolve a spiritual ego-natural deductive dominant?

If mythic creation stories of why we live
articulate dualdark logos dipolarity of how we purgatively die
while living within a WinWin naturally regenerative,
integral,
and unitarian Earth-Home-Universe,
then how are not all cultural nurturances
both universal and unitarian econatured?

How could a healthy integral, integrative re-ligion
re-tying
re-knotting
re-membering
re-linking,
re-syncing bicameral verb
become such a toxically divisive 
anthrocentrically universal noun?

Why couldn't nurture DNA nature
as DNA-nature eco/ego nondually dipolarizes nurturing love,
integrity as positive-regenerative?

Why isn't bilateral Time
spelled "Tao"
and defined as self-reiteratively progenitive EcoPresence?

Why are polycultural languages and values and political economies
dual-destined
to emerge polypaths
toward regenerative ecologos of bilateral co-arising global polyculture,
guilds and cooperative networks emerging nondual revolving Time,
as SunGod rises with prodigious eco-hope
yet nocturnally arrests with prodigal ego-suffering,
jonesing about hope
invested in justice
as one more dawn of life incarnate-memory?


Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016