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Prose Poetry Water Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Water

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

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

One Drop - Prose

These forgotten badlands are arid and parched. It’s felt the blistering, desert hot winds.
Turbulent gritty sand storms have crossed these lands. What was once lively, thriving is 
now only a desolate, thirsty terrain. After being drought-ridden for so long, the ground is 
hard, unyielding even to the smallest root.  Even vultures have stopped flying overhead 
for how can something die if everything is already dead?Day after desiccated day, the sun 
beams down, relentless. Although the night is somewhat welcoming, it is still so thick and 
humid that it doesn’t provide much comfort. But there’s a scent in the air….something 
somewhat familiar but from ages ago. There’s a change in the atmosphere…and an eerie 
silence that stretches for miles, like time has stood still. Splat! There…a scattered, dark 
circle on the ground…disappearing almost instantly. Suddenly, the scorching sky breaks 
open. Rain…cool, wet liquid…it does exist. Looking across the horizon, you can see it. Like 
a silky veil draping over the lands in a steady, fluid motion. There is no other sound 
around…just the sound of this drumming rain landing, making everything it touches glisten 
and gleam like diamonds. Giving drink to a once thought unquenchable territory, it opens 
up wide and soaks it all in. The water running, dripping into the trenches that were only 
once small cracks…..reaching depths unknown to bring forth life of what was once dead. If 
there were such a smell as years of dehydration and depravity finally receiving 
sustenance, this smell would be it. Such a beauty to behold…so much water that it stands
in pools until this hardened ground can learn what it’s like to soften in order to accept it. 
It’s everywhere, can you see it? Abundant, unwavering water. Everything has been so 
barren, you can see for miles…but…wait..what’s this? Something so small that you would 
almost miss it. Emerald green, a majestic inch…a sprout….a sprout of hope….a sprout of 
life…


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Drowning

Gasping for air. . . you strain your neck; stretching..you look around, checking.
Struggling to keep the pace. . . you're movements, fluctuating; you panic, you try floating.
Screaming for help. . .  no one is around, you wish for a miracle; you're wheezing, yelp not helping.
Giving, no one is reaching. . . the waves starting to bring you down; you fight, your Will diminishing.
Vanishing. . . your light dimming; They look from afar, will they notice you're drowning?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

ANGEL WITH AN UMBRELLA

Encumbered with the walker
blankets for the wet bench,
sheets of water splashing the cement.
I ventured to my smoking spot
face hidden inside my hooded coat.

I light my fire stick,

letting drops of water 
reverberate on my hood.

My angel came walking by
called my name;

gave me her umbrella and kept on walking.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Summer and the River


	
		
	Summer, 
	the Guadalupe River, 
	at least a couple of decades ago...
 	
	A bend in any river,
	no matter how slowly that river flows, 
	erodes the outside of that bend, 
	digs away at the bank, 
	separating stones from sand, 
	nudging them into shallow water 
	across and down the river, 
	sorting them by size as it goes, 
	the smaller, rounder ones 
	in a layer on top. 
	
	That’s where I was that summer afternoon, 
	on my back, half-submerged in the gravel shallows, 
	the water so warm I couldn’t feel it, 
	my arms straight out from my body,
	interrupting the flow, 
	causing almost waves
	as the water washed over. 
	My ears were under water; 
	I could hear only the flow of water around me. 
	Above me the leaves and branches 
	of trees overhanging the river 
	moved gracefully in the hot breeze. 
	Somehow the leaves and branches and water 
	moved at the same tempo, 
	not like music, 
	but rather a deep humhmmm 
	I could both see and feel. 

	I don’t know how long 
	I hovered in that flow, 
	but it wasn’t long enough. 
	In ways I can’t describe 
	I’m still there, 
	bathed in that most elemental of mediums, 
	moving with the leaves, 
	lost in a very long moment.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sweet River Man

Let's wait for the sunset one summer's day
down by the river where I always liked to play
we can kick off our shoes and bury our feet in the sand
come on please be my sweet river man
We can call the wild geese up with a little dab of feed
or jump in the water a little too deep
in that old Red River we can laugh and sing
take me by the hand, make that leap

Write our names in a heart in the sand
you can be my sweet river man
and I'll be your sweet lady river friend
we can hold on for life and scare the catfish twice
anything’s possible that time of day
my white sundress is a little bit dirty
from that red water that always stays so murky

I wouldn't want to be any other place
than down by the river where I always liked to play
and when the moon comes out tonight
and the stars shine bright
your sweet river lady
is going to sing to her sweet river man under the moonlight

watch those stars shooting in the dark as you hold me tight
until we see the sun start to rise
yeah down on the river where I always liked to play
nothing’s changed much since I was just a babe
but now I share with my sweet river man, my favorite place to play


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Watering

I love to water my yard.....and my feet.
My plants love to drink....
The cool water I give them.
 
Just like I love to water
You with my words.
Passion, lust and misty
Thoughts of love.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

WinterBane

WinterBane 
WinterBane 
 
Soltive pre ordained priest warlike additives initially a Jesus Freak becoming cold 
hearted in the winter. Bane has come with hatred of simple minded people. Sexual 
orientation is nill. Macabration indentation on the quilt. A welcome matt with a towel 
for spills. I have a small fortune tied. Up is not an option now. There is only snow up 
there eventually. The water line is nearer the river then the streaming stream of 
water near me on the highway catching all the melting riverlets as they run away 
from home in WinterBane. Some men still have strength but they abuse it think to 
break down boarded ruins tearing down old barns and cornors of old abandoned 
houses where homeless and poor people might find shelter from the rain. Where will 
they find to dwell. Because of wealth they have a large area to heat in WinterBane 
they have a larger of a structure the more expensive in the WinterBane with sleet 
coming down in Sheets of Ice looked like a solid wall of water hitting me Frost icing 
clothing no thing was DRY ice all over me a few moments after I stepped toe out of 
sheltor walking on the SIDE of the road cant walk on the roadway slipping on the ICE 
stepped offroad walking in the treelined. I found what looked like a Najavo Hogan 
brogaded outside there was clothes hannging on branches a Babylon Garden in the 
snow. While the whole city was whited out at degrees zero. The goose has a liver. 
Oh Pâté the liver rules the Goose is cooked with too many alcholic incumbents while 
the minutes of the meeting Read all old activity reported long ago nothing is new 
under the sun. Nothing there is nothing is there nothing in my past has preparred me 
for my future education has failed me for the alcholic eye was ruined for functioning 
in SOciety degenerate reborne. Nothing smelles worse to a man then sex mixed up 
with tobacco and alchohol how can anyone live as porn objects and still survive the 
toll booth smells like whiskey before three pee em it takes the heart to control it 
takes the lust to want. I feared to die for I was sinnor I feared one day to lay 
underneathe the snow ensheathed but then one day has come to eye EYE Fear No 
Snow EYE Fear No Snow I am a man. The snow no longer bothers me. I am beneath 
it all, My soul is not inside of me. It leaves me when I fall. As I lay here 
silently,wating for the trumpet, It will blow! 
I do not any longer fear the snow. 
Copyright © 2006 charles hice


Details | Prose Poetry | |

DefinitiveSound

DefinitiveSound
Kerplunk sound of stone dropping down into water Kersplash is man falling overboard a 
boat. Whoosh is the wind or someone moving or something moving fast leaving wind behind. 
Plop is messy. POP may be too many noises to describe them all. Bang a pistol shot. Boom 
thunder or explosives. Crack the lightening bolts or wood breaking SNAP the fingers snap 
the buttons closed snap them suspenders once SLAP is too composed. Creak the door open 
slowly it comes then stops Creak the door shut on my nerves oh the thrill and excitement in 
the Creak that comes. Whap is seldom penned they use wham or whack instead of whap the 
hapless foe whap him with the silly stick then let my people go fish; there is a blurble gurgle 
noise for fish out of water dry fish seldom heard or used the need not there in movies seen. 
Calls whistles barks too many on the listing port to add them whistles hear them barks just 
way too many calls from port of call to answer all the calls. Crunch is seldom heard but 
candy bars or fresh apples turned on the stem to view. Whale thar she blows kind of splishy 
constant throes just like running water hot or cold in a falls away zone the waterfalls away. 
Definitive sound.


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Gator Bait Series 1st Cold Snapped

The wind was blowing when she left the city...

I believe it was twenty below...

Where she was going she already knew...

But... first she had things she had to do...

Get rid of the body that was clear....

There were no options, it had to disappear....

The heater was broken and blowing cold air...

She could feel the ice, building up in her hair..

She had cleaned up the blood as best she could...

As she had hit him hard with that log of wood...

All she had asked him, was to light a fire...

To take off the chill in the house....

Do it yourself if you are cold...he snapped

And while you’re at it get me a cold beer...from the fridge..




It was early morning when she finally arrived at the bridge..

This was his favourite fishing spot...

She pushed his body off the pier...along with his ice cold beer..

And suddenly began to shiver and sneeze.....

Oh well, she said...this too shall pass..

When I get to the Florida Keys..


PS..this is the first in a series..watch for part 2.."gator bait..the dream "










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The Fourth Fable

 The Fourth Fable 
The Fourth Fable 
 
A Jesus Cowboy Song 
 
Eye am a strong man iff strength is not physical alone, 
but charachter and hope, love become my armour 
 my arm as gates once opened close now new ones open at a glance in poverty 
of riches poor people there in Heaven sing to Jesus as they wave branches from 
the richness of the trees beside the waters running in the trenches freely given 
overflowing when a little lamb just wants a drink of water another drink the water 
bubbles up so no one has to lift her she can reach the water carefully she drinks 
and then she sings…' 
'my holster is empty my life is complete my love is in Heaven 
eye have plenty to eat and to drink ' 
life is not meant to be a shoot em up rodeo 
life is not meant to be a shoot um up movie 
my life is in Heaven my holster is empty 
eye have LOVE' 
 


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Titanic The Unsinkable Ship

What people believed in 1912.
Was a myth in the truth, placed on a shelf.
Was the unthinkable, unsinkable..
The fourty six thousand gross tons of steal.
Would never kneel or break its bow.
The ship could never sink or rust.
Was rumor going round, we all could trust.
The crowd showd up to celebrate.
As the ship was Christened to show its fate.
But The White Star Line was cruising fine.
When it hit a berg, under a darkened sky.
There it lie, with many to cry.
At the bottom of the sea she'll die.
They said the Titanic could never sink.
Their opinion a myth, now she's on the brink.
With fourty six thousand gross tons of steal.
The voyagers finished their final meal.
To the bottom of the ocean they went.
A many to cry, while she made her descent.
The Titanic was a ship in trouble.
But now a myth, and a pile of rubble.
At the bottom's where she made her grave.
A sigh of relief, for the lives they saved.
To the rescue, and on the double.
Titanic was a ship in trouble..
Her maiden voyage, now turn the page.
Thousand of people, in a fit of rage.
The news it read that we all should mourn.
The Titanic's passengers, their lives were torn.
A myth of truth placed in the news.
The unsinkable ship..Would never lose.

Titanic-Poetry by Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 2009,2014..
ALL rights reserved.. 


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The Second Fable

 The Second Fable 
The Second Fable 
 
The BusYness 
 
 
The Alcoholic boss: 
       The man was doing inventory when the lady called his namme. 
“Johnny what is wrong with you eye just looked out at the van? 
The tire is almost flat again eye just gave you a hundred dollars yesterday to get 
the tire fixed and eye remember giving you fifty just last week? You must have 
kept the money are you drinking now again?” 
The Alcoholic Worker: 
“Tilly you are mistaken the tire is not that low eye checked the gauge myself less 
than two hours ago. 
The receipt for the tireshop is still inside the till Tilly why do not you still believe 
me tell me Tilly how could eye get a receipt like that unless eye paid the bill?” 
The Alcoholic Worker: 
To Tilly:“Every now and then they do a poor poor job so eye will take the van back 
to the tire shop and have them check that tire again.” 

To ASIDE: The whiskey that eye bought with that old coots money is still in the 
center console eye have to drink it now today and she will knoe I'm drunk unless 
eye leave the van somewhere and say that it got stolen and the bad men beat me 
up. 
Narrator Charlax Android One Seven: 
The Johnny worker got in the van and drove to the center of a bridge he leaped 
from the bridge into the water down below with the whiskey in his hand and left 
the van in the center of the bridge the tire was now so low it was just flat. 
The Alcoholic Worker: 
Johnny to hisself: “The Tilly will believe me why should she doubt so much eye 
have to make this look good a lie is soon found out.” 
Narrator Charlax One Seven: 
Johnny took a rock of largesse size and hit himself more than three times hard 
upon his brow his forehead split wide open he looked like a beaten up man. 
He finished off the whiskey and walked somewhat surprised that his worthwhile 
plan had come to a fruition in his addled whiskey mind back to the sewing 
shoppe. 
 Listen as the woman talks to him. 

                        The Alcoholic Boss: 
“Before you say a word to me my alcoholic Johnny there was a Charlax sitting 
underneath the bridge playing games down in the water he loves a mermaid 
there and kisses all her hair. He saw you leave the van and leap into the water 
my friend MISS Tilly Two is bringing back the van for you.” 
“Now don't you feel so foolish the job was feeding you now you will look for 
someone else to tell your lies to rob them of there wealth to feed your alcoholic 
drive.” 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

One Slick Chick

There is an old saying....
keep your friends near, but keep your enemies even closer...

This is a poem about a very smart Chick...
Who was very resourceful and very slick...
Rumor had it there was a Wolf, and he had a way...
Of taking advantage of everyone on any given day...
He had terrorized the neighborhood for the very last time...
They had a town meeting , and all agreed...
That the only choice was a dastardly deed... 
Chick volunteered to take on the challenge...
And majority stated, he had to explunge...
“I’d love to have you over for dinner on Friday “ said Chick...
To which Wolf stated quite arrogantly, but quick...
It would be my pleasure...see you at eight...
There was a beautiful shining Harvest Moon, when Wolf arrived at the gate...
Come sit in my hot tub, said Chick turning on some tunes...
Dinner should be ready very soon...
The water is hot , said the Wolf...
Ahh , but your body will feel so much better...
Just relax and drink this wine, dinner will have much more flavor... 
Hours went by...then the doorbell rang...
It was the Pigs,  from town known as the “ gang “...
Quick grab a chair and please be aware ...
That I have slaved all day for this affair...
One which will change your perception of me...
I might be a Chick, but as you will see...
I have accepted the challenge, and done my best...
So do me a favor and please honor my request ... 
Use your best table manners, and please do not squeal...
And for everyone’s sake, try not to “ Wolf “ down this  meal...





Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Day in the Country

Lost in a beautiful garden that stretched far into the perfect turquoise horizon,
Amazed at the smells, the beauty with the breeze singing through blossomy trees
The cherry blossom danced in a light wind lifted it off boughs swirling in the air,
Sun shining through budding branches, shadows of mighty oak trees black on green

A haunting tune from the star in the meadows a nightingale sang to his loved one,
His song filled the air over water mead's nearby, and floated through great woods,
A trickling stream flowed with golden water running and leaping to a noble river,
Last years fallen crisp brown red leaves floated off on a journey to a noble river.

Listening to a nightingales opera warming the hardest heart it floats in the wind,
Then when it does not seem possible to hear a better sound the bird changes pitch,
While it sings sweetly the rest of the grasslands are silent, proud and respectful,
As no other voice can match the wonderful tune that rings through heaths and dales.

In the distance there were some landmarks that were familiar so now I was not lost,
I spotted a butcher-bird, cockchafer in the warm woods as I stood on spongy turf,
Saxifrage in the meadow as I walked out from the wood into brilliant May sunshine,
Far in the distance a horn sounded to tell workers their work was done and go home.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Flowing Water By : Nesar Translated By Hatem

The early morning, the edge of spring And the flowing water 
My Beloved, ask God to grant you me And the flowing water.
She was gazed in her picture, while the picture was gone with water 
The girl stands on her place and the water flows 
When it comes in your poem, it may has the relevance
The interpretation of scared beauty And the flowing water 
The eyes of some are full of tears and lips of some are dry  
O God! Combine that desert and flowing water 
 What an unusual dream, I always dream it 
Nesar , you and she together And the flowing water


Details | Prose Poetry | |

WITH RAIN CAME LOVE

WITH RAIN CAME LOVE
Cool breeze
Cumulus clouds
Breeze solidifies,
Drizzling
Monsoon rain
White threads move to
Heavy shower.
Rain smiles
And with rain came love.
Long journeys
Longing leaning on his back
In the valley
Where meteors shower
Unexpected momentary moments
Eddied life,
Glimpses like water bubbles
Shadows overpowered specks of lights
Specks of laurels
Sudden borders to dreams
Yonder in the sky departing clouds
Swollen rain clouds
Lustre obscure
Renunciation with disinterest
Rain and love spreading over
Love brought silence
Mermaids, water nymphs
Stood guard.
We went close at heels
Along turbulent back waters
We sat, in grief
In rain and mystifying silence
Passion delivered
And kept in store
Spread over us.
Rain peeping through
Birch trees
Rain lashing through
Gulmohar
Geography of silence
Without a speck of dirt
Pious communion
Of love and rain.
Wailing hornbills, compassionate
Invoked rain
She saw us in deep grief
Grief of life-
Love in deep sleep blushed into
Wakefulness.
Longing, sights and rude realities
Cosmic force showers
Moments of eternal bliss.
In steep valley of sterility
Ascetic sun winked
At welcome clouds
Dryness transplanted
Into alluvial softness.
Rude faces, sights and longings
Lost way,
Emerged throbbing passion.
Showers of love,
Showers of mystic bliss.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Death Calls Out to Us

What does death want with us? Why does it laugh viciously when it takes another? Why do we cry so when we loose yet another? When will we realize that the end an end is near? How can we, be ready, in every moment? How can we, stand, when all around us falls? How can we carry on when everything emits death? How can we continue on, brushing death aside? What gives us that false sense of pride? Oh, that which we try to hide, That, That which we try to hide… How long will it take until the tide washes over??When will it wash over our lines in the sand? Will you and I then run hand in hand? Or, will the waves wash away our names? IS it all these silly games? All the silly things that I call fame. How simple is it, that the sand simply returns? Never the same as it was, but washed away. Like time in a bottle, Dripping away. Dripping, slowly, quickly away. How will I face the entire onslaught of the waves? When the water is rushing in, will I sink or swim? How can I blame the water, When I never learned to swim? How can I blame the air? The air I never learned to breathe. How can I blame the water that drags me down? What does it do? Nothing… Can’t I still breathe? Aren’t my lungs filling with water? How can I blame this feeling, so painful, for how I feel? Don’t I have myself? Myself and only I? Am I truly the reason? The reason why waves crash and pour from my eyes? Am I the reason they fill my lungs? Am I the reason death’s pain still stung?


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When love came walking

When love came walking,
she stopped at my door
and asked for a drink of water;
I never knew what to think, or 
how love found her way to my front door.

I stood amazed,
the twilight in the sky had broke
and she still stood,
smiling with teeth like snow,
and I gave her a drink of water.

She went on her way,
that was two years ago today;
still I sit and ponder over the whole event,
I still sit and wonder if that was my big chance
to find love and fall for her,
but she'll be in the neighborhood again,
I'll just have to wait- with a tall glass of water.

.2.21.2014.


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Icicles and Hard Frost

One dark and very cold night I decided to stretch my legs and go for a walk,
Stars were so very clear, if I stood on a ladder I, could touch the Dog Star,
Jack Frost is busy frost on frost sparkled and twinkled in silver moonlight,
The river and local brooks stood in silence only waterfalls trickled slowly.

A frozen mist floated down and rested over the top of any frozen water way,
Becoming denser, pressing nearer the icy surfaces I could smell sharp cold,
Standing on the bank in a frozen setting was a big old oak's moonlit shadow,
The tips of my ears tingled and my breath was rime, it was so very beautiful.

Layers of water slowly flowed over the ice, that water turned to ice in minutes,
Plates of ice covered with a frost clogging the runs and eddies everything still,
Icicles hung down from branches and the arches of a small bridge solid and strong,
In the morning ice would be levered up and broken, left to sail into the distance


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Life is like a Waterfall


My life is as the waterfall 
No matter the effort I put forth
I continue to fall into the canyon

With strength of hope and prayers 
I climb against forces with  my head raise to the heavens
As water gushes over the mountain top

Determined not to give out or accept failure
I dug my toes deep into crevices on the mountainside 
Grasping for breathe as I'm hit in the face by the cold water

My mouth is open taking advantage of fresh air
My eyes are blurred by water and mist as in summertime
And crusted over by frost as in fall season

Chilly springtime spawning tornadoes and windstorms
Ice sickles hanging from trees and power lines
I die a little inside again as life is being renewed all around me

Life will go on and I will be forgotten like the ancient dead
Having failed both my classes, losing joy for my studies
What will I do now, I can't go to school for the first since two thousand four

I'm sure I'll be suspended for a year, trying to study breaking free of my cocoon 
With just a year left to graduate pending my Associates Degree 
I'll have to wait it out all alone this spring and summer semesters, humiliated 

I have the heavy of the world on my face since I'm told I look like hubby's mother
After carrying a smile on my face like the sunshine, everyday 
Just to hide the night having no stars or moon in my heart, I rain tears of blood inside


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Interlude

Blue-gray foggy mist hanging over the lake like an ethereal blanket obscuring 
the surface of the water and making the scene look like an artist's water color
or perhaps pastels, the chalk blended lightly with a finger tip, the far shore 
barely visible from where I sit, ancient trees rising like giants, silent sentinels, 
defiant, too early for the usual chatter of the birds, they still sleep, 
undisturbed, only one awake is me and the occasional turtle coming up to 
breathe, gently disturbing the placid lake surface as evidenced by a single ring, 
its purpose to slowly expand and dissipate noiselessly, as the orange sun has 
begun to peek over the horizon and that magical time is gone, those few 
moments between the darkness of night and the harsh light of dawn, that gray 
soft interlude before reality intrudes, when it seems the whole world 
sleeps...and the stillness and the silence is overwhelming.


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Walking in the Hills

At noon we sat down under a large old oak tree on a wild hillside with masses of rocks,
The day was very warm and I took off my knapsack and rested by the foot of an old tree,
Below was a spread of orchards, next to meadows, and the glades sat with watery mead's,
Above, a beech forest that stretched, many miles the greenery touching the white clouds,
White clouds in a beautiful blue sky, shapes constantly changing shape, in a light cool wind.

Looking around there was much to see, there were lapwings and golden plovers in the trees,
Down below in a meadow a carter was leading a pair of horses off to plough a grassy field,
Then a fox crept from a hedge into a ploughed field and dropped right down into a furrow,
On a flooded mead a Great Crested Grebe dived under the water looking for some fresh fish,
And the water looked like sheets of polished glass and the sun reflected great rods of beams.

The track we walked soon vanished and then lofty pillars of beach-boles with thick canopies,
The earth was brown, withered leaves scattered amoung small pieces of rock green with wet moss,
Here and there were shallow bogs with the 'touch-me-not' plant with bright yellow flowers,
A plant whose name gives significant caution, as where it grows, there is treacherous footing,
Legend says mountain climbers make their peace with God if they meet some in a rocky crag. 

Half an hour's progress and we were going in the right direction the scene was impressive,
As we wandered through woods with no out let visible the shade was heavy, deep and silent,
Then through a gap in far off trees was an opening and buttercups formed a carpet of gold,
On a bough was a Goldcrest the smallest British bird, he hopped from twig to twig for insects,
Their tiny nests made from mosses and spiders webs, slung underneath the branch of a tree. 


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high-yielding verses

 when this endless anchal of dhanekhali sari 
continues to make dip-swimming 
in the bottomless water of the paddy 

and if into the colour of her fore-finger 
enters repeatedly some whole-noons of the chot-boshekh 

and from the more depth of the ceiling-fan 
comes out the ordour of the open-hair of the village-orange 

then with that lac-saliva wouldn’t an easy pandel 
be constructed on the roof

its water will be made begin as well 
that white cloud … that life of this concrete …

beforehand to it … with a garland of flowers of the sun-plant   
around her neck… let her be seated on this branch of peepul branch… for once  

taking the warmth of the kites flown after having a thread-cut 
let the cows of man be productive by a few inch more 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

paper buckles 9 - 10

9.
like the light 
like the dark 

yet it is full of the sound of steps 
again it wakes up on the forest-road  

taking leave from the yellow construction 
all the sound of the bamboo-flute 
sinks today into the green minerals 

it is not moonlight 
on the road it is some north-east sadness 

he who comes admits his body 
with the divine sin 

if you are sorry be water for three days now

through out the day and night 
there is the paraffin of fire-flies 

the blue cough is not from the sky 

it may be some tusu-gaan fly off 
from the chest of the straight-line 
that has been wiped out

10.
i’ve deposited my metallic heart 
to the archaeological-store of the wind 

and i send rolling this bare eyes towards the fog 
frequently

i make the crystal of her hair soft 

i can see those crows 
whose jaws are not closed
 
the colour is also 
as if it were burst into cotton 

can the anchal of danekhali sari swallow the kernel 
and water of the blue tooth-brash after opening its husk 

i say to the head with earnest request 
oh my father keep cool 
and look at the rain-pipe inside which 
there is all the dances of the peacocks

11.
in the dim light 
the predecessors of the dead stars 
tell stories 

this dhaba 
is beside the long bus-root 

yet it is still not satisfied 
with the shrimps
 
the tail of the black drongo 
hanging from the farakka bridge 
is divided 

towards the ganga 
towards the padma 

the gramophone of the mid-noon 
continues to sound at the midnight 

those who are doing pilgrimage 
on the back of tigers

within the lighting zone of their torch 
all the nearest of men who get lost 
cover their faces
 
you know very well that the memory-gland of the wind 
becomes how much river-minded when it walks through the fire


Details | Prose Poetry | |

moments for blooming 6 - 10

6.	
I pierced the clouds with my fore-finger
And the blood-stain touches my body 
the wind which makes the doors and windows 
open to public view I can’t stare at its eyes
I push the storm towards the yellow-leaves

7. 
sometimes the river calls 
as if she will fly like the winged horse 
if she be let loosed 
where  does she keep the sadness of her placenta
there is no flower-vase 
the glass is good enough 	
though the lover glass has broken with the first kiss 
the grass with aromatic roots trembles in the breeze from the candid wings  
the orna flies tearing the caterpillar 
would you let your  salted water be wasted 

8. 
beside the comb there is hair
Is it soft green or the alkaline
How much relevant is that information
Rowing through which water the endemic comes
The afternoon-cloud giggled took permission and went home 
bringing an end to today’s play 
the unwashed plates after eating are placed on the basin 
the night-cigarette goes burning in the mouth of air
on the coughs and expectoration floats the lost mast  

9. 
the sands are shy to the extreme
They don’t loot anything 
The bricks have much intimacy with the wild creepers
All the komonduls and lances  turned backward
Now you may easily spread your wet cloth in the air
One roof would have dialogues with another in the lost afternoon
One window have eye-sharing with the another

10. 
there is the laugh 
100% natural
Beauty is written on the eyebrows 
that is also a game 
new cloths at the time of puja 
that is also an addiction 
a hidden bunglow 
under the tongue 
no information of death


Details | Prose Poetry | |

swim into the falls

Written 20071004
 
Sadness slowly flows through my veins 
The only way is a penalty 
I ask myself why did I do it 
What defeated the purpose in killing
 Such disparity, vengeance I created
 I look down at the reflection 
How could I be such an animal
 Staring at the face in the water 
My final decision has been struck
 I turned and looked at the surroundings
 Police in sight at every corner 
Thinking clearly, I must escape
 I do not wish to spend my life behind iron bars Inside these prison walls evil lurking everywhere Something that holds you unaware of consciousness 
I glance behind my shoulder nervously
 Running faster...
 step by step the men come 
Bending my knees I dive deep into the water There was a soft whisper seeping through my ears 
I listened to the voice speaking softly
 I swim far deep to the other side of the river
 I wait to see if someone is following 
Nothing but the rushing water above 
They were gone, no cops in sight or in view 
I cheer quietly for my success 
The victory of my escape
 My appreciation from the voice in which I heard Exciting to remember the very words
 "Swim into the falls."


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Responses to Reflexive Daydream

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Day in the Country

Lost in a beautiful garden that stretched far into the perfect turquoise horizon,
Amazed at the smells, the beauty with the breeze singing through blossomy trees
The cherry blossom danced in a light wind lifted it off boughs swirling in the air,
Sun shining through budding branches, shadows of mighty oak trees black on green

A haunting tune from the star in the meadows a nightingale sang to his loved one,
His song filled the air over water mead's nearby, and floated through great woods,
A trickling stream flowed with golden water running and leaping to a noble river,
Last years fallen crisp brown red leaves floated off on a journey to a noble river.

Listening to a nightingales opera warming the hardest heart it floats in the wind,
Then when it does not seem possible to hear a better sound the bird changes pitch,
While it sings sweetly the rest of the grasslands are silent, proud and respectful,
As no other voice can match the wonderful tune that rings through heaths and dales.

In the distance there were some landmarks that were familiar so now I was not lost,
I spotted a butcher-bird, cockchafer in the warm woods as I stood on spongy turf,
Saxifrage in the meadow as I walked out from the wood into brilliant May sunshine,
Far in the distance a horn sounded to tell workers their work was done and go home.


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 | |

SIXTYTWO

 SIXTYTWO 
SIXTYTWO 
 
 
Therebedragonflies 
 
CharlaXFabels 
 
There is no darkenness in the LORD my GOD he is perfect and forever more the 
creation He has made a little less than perfectly but some things he made to 
warm our hearts in spring are nearly formed as close to GOD he loves them all 
the dragonflies is one of those they meet all the requirements for our love. 
Four wings so delicately made to fly. A faces only mothers could have loved. NO 
reason much to live except just to exist existence then is love. They fly and have 
ewe noticed them at night how they like to lite near open water near a waterfall 
ewe find them mostly brown but there aer read ones and some blue ones and 
some good ones no they are only good ones and they spy on lovers in the night 
One heart lonesome thinking of her man one heart yearning to be a man they 
find each other in the dragon fly again. Water drowns a man he wants to swim 
into the underwater dragonfly the lair of all the mermaid wishes she is there oh 
mye Ianthe. You are terribly adorable! mon ange. 
<3 
>.< 
Soon the dragonflies will come back again 
L()()K at this it seems that love has blinded her to mye reality she waits and 
searches for our love amid the gleaming pearls of water searching for the wings 
the spotted owl no the raven quoted no the flying serpent there no it is the yellow 
tail the golden flyer there the portent of mye heart turned into love. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Icicles and Sharp Frost

One dark and very cold night I decided to stretch my legs and go for a walk,
Stars were so very clear, if I stood on a ladder I, could touch the Dog Star,
Jack Frost is busy frost on frost sparkled and twinkled in silver moonlight,
The river and local brooks stood in silence only waterfalls trickled slowly.

A frozen mist floated down and rested over the top of any frozen water way,
Becoming denser, pressing nearer the icy surfaces I could smell sharp cold,
Standing on the bank in a frozen setting was a big old oak's moonlit shadow,
The tips of my ears tingled and my breath was rime, it was so very beautiful.

Layers of water slowly flowed over the ice, that water turned to ice in minutes,
Plates of ice covered with a frost clogging the runs and eddies everything still,
Icicles hung down from branches and the arches of a small bridge solid and strong,
In the morning ice would be levered up and broken, left to sail into the distance.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

THE WELL

Red Bricks layered in caked baked mud. All the children heeded the warnings and never got 
too close. With the exception of Karn, for he rarely obeyed and often to his harm. This deep 
down source of coursing water fascinated him. He rested in the sun, his ear pressed to the 
earth for hours. Mesmerized via the trickle and flow. So soft one second thundering loud 
against the tunnel's confining sides the next. 

As if the water below his feet wanted release. Karn understood the desire for freedom. He, 
like the liquid beneath him, was trapped. When he wasn't near here the sounds that filled his 
ears were terrible and taunting. The adults loomed over him. Monsters with fangs and claws. 
Horrible harsh shouts and growls that ripped him raw. He froze with pain and did not thaw in 
the warm summer rain. Only the water trapped in the well soothed him. He felt a kinship. He 
felt comfort. The closest he would ever come to love.

One day the well went dry and Karn cried. Something inside him died.