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Prose Poetry Work Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Work

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

Irresponsibility Day

5:11am
I wake up to my TV blasting episodes of Woody Woodpecker.

I wipe my encrusted eyes, which had a field day in that dream I had
Involving two Swedish women, a Latin princess
With curvaceous hips that could save me if I ever fell from mountain climbing,
A Sony boom box made in 1984 playing Duran Duran,
And empty boxes of Junior Mints, M&M Peanuts, & Cool Whip.

I walk to my front door to discover hundreds of blood lettered Post-It notes
Slid under by my friendly Mafia neighbors, 
“Turn that crap down or say ‘HOLA’ to my little friend! Woody sucks! ”

5:45am:
So, instead of apologizing, I grabbed my power drill
Which I bought off this Mexican guy named Bob
Standing in front of my local Home Depot,

I thanked each of my neighbors by drilling Wal-Mart smiley faces
Smoking Cuban cigars & holding Shotguns
Into their doors

At this point, I popped in some Belgian waffles & French Toast sticks
Into my Cookie Monster toaster oven and turned on the news.

What was I thinking?!

News reports on Sugar Daddies being harassed by stalking gold-diggers,
Another asinine Final Destination movie,
More teacher-student scandals,
Celebrity break-ups & pregnancies
Oh, how the sheep live vicariously through them

Where’s that damn noose I bought off Bob?!

610am:
To remove my early morning frustrations,
I turned on my Xbox 360 and popped in Guitar Hero
In which I jammed out to Stevie Wonder’s Superstitious
While performing Riverdance on my hardwood floor

The neighbors below me added a nice, rhythmic sound with their broomsticks.

7am:
After my Pilates workout, I decided to strip off my clothes
So I can feel FREE like a Tree-hugging barn swallow
And fill my bathtub with a bottle of Tickle Me Elmo Bubble Bath liquid,
Which I also bought off Bob

Shortly after, I yelled “THIS IS SPARTA!” and performed a belly flop into the tub…

2pm:
After waking up from my concussion, I laughed maniacally
With my face underwater
My laughs were heard through the popping bubbles rising to water’s surface

I passed out again with a drumming thud against my porcelain dreams.

7pm:
Second attempt at recovery, SUCCESS!

I gathered all my utility bills
A filled, plastic gas tank, another purchase from Bob
And a Jerry Garcia branded lighter

As inferno warmed my screaming loins,
Blasting John Lennon’s “Imagine” on my 8-Track,
The local Fire department sliced my front door
With titanium axe and an inscription: “Here’s Johnny”

As hundreds of angry firemen & neighbors stampede into my child-like day

*CLICK*

3pm, Day Unknown:
I awaken with lines imprinted on my Latin cheeks
From wooden office desk
Strange stares from coworkers
With “I’m all out of Love” playing on the faded, company radio

And a post-it note, “Come see me in my office”,
From Bob

©Drake J. Eszes

Copyright © Drake Eszes

Details | Prose Poetry | |

An Open Communique to the Rogues

To the seedlings sprouting in the 8 corners of the world:



An open communique can lead towards a perilous precipice overlooking jagged rocks being pounded by the relentless waves of a cold, apathetic ocean -- in such a circumstance, it doesn't take much to slip, to be pushed, to be sent over the edge, shattering upon the rocks below, sucked down by an undertow erasing all evidence of your prior existence. We have come to an impasse, the windows of opportunity in the jet-streams of change, are passing by at astounding speeds. A true Anarchist is not a Terrorist; leave such decrepit despondency to ultra-fanatic zealots and the New Gestapo. A true Anarchist should not fight for lawlessness, should not wish for chaotic, wanton destruction - such myths are propagated by automatons and the controllers themselves. A true Anarchist should not raise placards in protest, should not spray-paint graffiti upon the walls of gaudy Bauhaus replications, nor lob Molotov cocktails at an establishment so entrenched, four heads grow back to replace every head, decapitated. A true Anarchist dons a masque of mirages, reflecting nationalism, consumerism and Swastikas back into the eyes of the pushers. A true Anarchist does so by donning the uniforms of business districts, of the worker, of the paint-splattered, ink-stained artisan. When a true Anarchist gains the confidence and trust of Drones left in charge of oiling the cogs, a true Anarchist enters the control-room not to smash instruments, but instead, turns dials, flicks switches, presses buttons, re-writes programs and codes, in order to help alter the directional course of the very Beast itself. 11.21.2012 .

Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Retribution

	It was kind of nice having money all the
		Time.
	Looking back when I was seventeen,
		I looked forward to going to work.
	It is unlike what I feel about work now.
		I did a lot of reading as a child.
	I read all kinds of books.
		I would consider Oak Lawn a safe
	Community then. 
		I can’t remember any times when I got beat up.

	I did a lot of running home and telling.
		I avoided a lot of suffering by talking to
		My parents about the bullies.
			It wasn’t until junior high that I had to
		Take care of a fight that went way wrong.
			I was scared to death of a seventh grader.
		I fought him, and found out he wanted to 
			Wrestle.
		I wasn’t that good of a 
			Wrestler then.

		I got better
			In high school.
		It was kind of chaotic, and the wrestling matches
			Were more “fighting” than wrestling.
		I hung in school and made a name for myself
			At Oak Lawn Community High School.
		My sister gave me a collection of albums
			My junior year.
		I was introduced to all kinds of music by
			Those.

		My first good introduction to music came
			My sophomore year.
		A friend introduced me to “The Police” with
			“Zenyatta Mondatta” and “Ghost in
		The Machine”.
			He told me what he did at his party
		In eighth grade.
		They sat around and played Gin.
			They drank soda.
		They went bowling.

		I got off to a late start with music,
			And I finally caught up with my tape-
		Radio I got for Christmas my junior year.
			I could have had a big party,
		But I decided to wait.
			I didn’t really have one except
	 	The one’s I had in grammar school.
			My friend thought he was going to
		Get married to this one girl at O.L.C.H.S.
			It fizzled out like my relationship did.

			That girl liked someone else though.
		I should have given up calling her,
			It was no fun talking to her.
		She didn’t talk to me at all in school.
			I’m not sure she even knew who I was
		In lunch.
			I didn’t have anymore classes with her.
			Her boyfriend went out for basketball
		Like I should have done.  I was pretty good.  Maybe just
		Doing my chess and studying was the best thing for me to do.

		

Copyright © Hannibal Lecter

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hustling And Bustling- The Ghetto's Slogan

So packed and full is the train a lot die trying to taste of its final gain. This journey so full of pain as it seems all that Life can offer is a cane treating its bunch of victims with disdain. But don't give it all up and go off the lane to this cause stay true and sane. In Life priorities, make it the main provided it is clean and plain. Cos finally, it won't be in vain. Just be patient on the rain when its out pour comes your rewards shall build up like the empire in Spain. Accepting the newly found guardian whom unto you it begets after near-surviving years of neglect. Now, your pain it will recompense and deservedly account for every drop of your sweat!

Copyright © Funom Makama

Details | Prose Poetry | |

CHANGED MY Underwear,------- and My Name

I
change my name 
like 
underwear...
fairly often, I suppose

I 
change my clothes 
like 
area codes
and Imma' damn gypsy, ya' see

I 
keep it fresh ta' death
nada
speck of blood
or 
ketchup on my attire

I 
got more rhymes 
than I got grey hairs
and 
that's an effing lot
because i got my share

I 
digg a 
hot-fire piece of passionate verse
those are 
indeed 
rare to find

YET...
if  only poets would 
unleash the fury 
instead of 
holding back
what's really 
on their mind...

I must say...
the library, 
the internet, 
the etc. etc...
would be a less stinky place...
AND, maybe 
I'd keep my name, and sever ties with 
underwear's elastic,
and just go 
APE-Spit Spastic!~

Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Life is Like Baseball final post

Focus means everything!!!....  


                              Effort.                            Courage.       

                                   

In times of our lives we strike out but it is a team sport.    
                      

Think about when you hit that home run!!!!!!!   


It really doesn`t matter at that MOMENT who was there and who wasn`t.

Who applauded and who didn`t.      

      

Moments are all we have, when "time" itself was calculated by the stars and man; 
therefore i fail to believe it truly exists.   

           

Love and The Fight For Survival  continues on............






(Let's play ball!!!!!!!!~incidently my all time favorite sport to play, watch, and 
burn 'em, every chance I get!) 

Spring is here!!!     WoooooooHooooo!!!




Life is just that way. 

Thanks to all for allowing me to openly express myself here at 
this soup, where there is no norm in form, it's just poetryman.
 No right, no wrong... 
Let's shake hands because it sure has been an exciting game that at times I didn't 
realize I was even playing...! 
All in all life is sweet and short. 
May you be blessed in your lives and your creatitity.

                                                   *~THE END~*
Sincerely,  

Lucinda

Copyright © Lucinda Bulger

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lawyer Envy

(The writing exercise was to choose three poetry cliches and make them fresh)
(back stabber, after my own heart; and a soul of discretion; maybe more...)

He was a back stabber
After my own heart
Meek and sleek and sneaky
He wormed his way in
And 'innocently' uncovered
State secrets
Private tales
Skeletons in closets
They were all fair game

He was a back stabber
Not to be trusted
But had 
Such a sweet smile
That promised a soul of discretion
It was too easy to believe him
It felt good to trust him

He pulled his victims in
And it wasn’t until the court case
Was over
And the jury voted for him
Again
That you realized he was a back stabber

He pulled it off with such panache
And charm
You had to admire the guy
Even while you staunched your blood

I wish – oh I wish
I had his skills
He was a back stabber
After my own heart

Copyright © KJ Hooten

Details | Prose Poetry | |

GREATEST FIGURES

Figures of immense reputation and popularity they were
Attracting public attention and admiration in the pursuit of their great works
Leaving behind them a legacy of some kind
But going with them their unique characters.

Wasn’t the explosion of Christianity the work of Jesus of Nazareth?
And the burst of Islam not the work of Muhammed of Mecca?

Neither will the admirable leadership of Julius Caesar;
Nor the conquests of the unlearned Charlemane,
And the military successes of Alexander the great,
Be forgotten in History.

If the British can forget Napoleon’s continental system
Jews then, would forget Hitler’s concentration camps
And history would entirely cease recalling his mentor Mussolini.

What if Carl Marx did not propound radical socialism?
Lenin then, would not have smashed the bourgeoisie and ruled Russia
Neither would the principles of Marxism-Leninism be sustained by Stalin
Nor would Churchill seal the border between the East and the West with an iron curtain.

A grave mistake it would be to forget Martin Luther King Jr.
For if he be forgotten, Mahatma Ghandi then would also be
And the entire movement of nonviolence
Will stop covering many pages of modern history books.

Had it not for Kwame Nkruma and Hastings Banda to cut the rope of colonialism
The ambitious Cecil Rhodes then,
Would have drained the whole continent of all its economic wealth.

The ascendancy of Nelson Mandela from the horizon of apartheid
Was not the beginning of Maximillien Robespierre’s reign of terror;
Characterized by avenges and reprisals
But the emergence of Abraham Lincoln’s true democracy.

What if Caesar were not butchered?
William Shakespeare then, would not have been the greatest playwright
Causing Charles Dickens and Chinua Achebe not to appear.

For the existence of a Jewish state, David Ben Gulion fought
But for the reemergence of a Palestinian state, Yasser Arafat strives.

Copyright © Cromwell Mpinganjira

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Todtnauberg

Paul Celan (1920 in Cernauti, Romania  - 1970 in Paris) was a poet and translator. Paul
Antschel was born into a Jewish family in Romania, but as a writer used the pseudonym
"Paul Celan," becoming one of the major German-languuage poets after World War II. Celans
parents were deported by the Nazis in 1942 to a death camp in Transnistria (area between
Moldvia and Ukraine). His Father died of thyphoid, his mother was shot. The deportation
and the death of his parents  left deep marks in Paul Celan. From 1942-1943 he was
imprisoned in work camps and had to work in road construction in southern Moldavia. After
the liberation by the Red Army, Celan went back to Czernowitz and finally settled in Paris
in 1948. In 1969 he travelled to Jerusalem, only fwe months before his death.
Circumstances and true date of his death are not really known but it is believed that he
drowned himself in the Seine River in April 1970. His body was found near Coubevoie, ten
kilometres downstream in the Seine. He was buried on May 12th 1970 in Paris.

	Todtnauberg (Paul Celan)

	Arnika, Augentrost, der
 	Trunk aus dem Brunnen mit dem
	Sternwürfel drauf,


         in der
         Hütte, (= Hut in English)


         die in das Buch
         - wessen Namen nahms auf
         vor dem meinen? -
         die in dies Buch
         geschriebene Zeile von
         einer Hoffnung heute,
         auf eines Denkenden
         kommendes
         Wort
         im Herzen,

         Waldwasen, uneingeebnet
         Orchis und Orchis, einzeln,

         Krudes, später, im Fahren,
         deutlich,

         der uns fährt, der Mensch
         der's mit anhört,

         die halb-
         beschrittenen Knüppel-
         pfade im Hochmoor,

         Feuchtes,
         viel.
--------------------------------------------

Arnica, eyebright, the 
draft from the well with the 
star-die on top, 
in the 
Hütte    
written in the book 
- whose name did it record 
before mine? -
in this book 
the line about 
a hope, today, 
for a thinker's 
word 
to come, 
in the heart, 
forest sward, unleveled, 
orchis and orchis, singly, 
crudeness, later, while driving, 
clearly, 
he who drives us, the man, 
he who also hears it, 
the half- 
trod log- 
trails on the highmoor, 
humidity, 
much. 

Celan: "Todtnauberg" (translated by Pierre Joris)
Used by permission of the translator

Copyright © Gert W. Knop

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A running chestnut or no - on essay,idiocracy

Altogether unprofitable sentimental but no fool they call him an old sap 		        The taste of knowledge to him is sweet to get more valuable than sap to a tree	   even more valuable than the gold that runs from seven hills					 prolongs the days: but the years of the wicked shall be shortened.				  The Lord does hate pride, and arrogancy, and the evil way, and the froward mouth         the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom with an expected end pure love                  as God gives the increase I have tasted the Lord is gracious				           A strong warning from the savior Jesus He is Lord						   whosoever shall say, Thou fool, shall be in danger of hell fire                                      some may say the old sage is just saber rattling 					             Essayage the shoe on the other foot walking a mile				                   in someone else shoes who has two left feet and one leg longer				          truly your feet are bound to get sore circling around the mountain 	 			    just assaying the metal who is your maker I know mine 					         For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, 						        works for us a far more exceeding eternal weight of glory						 I am not straining gnats just spitting out the the filthy camel 				      Love the Lord God Jesus and every man your neighbor                             all the glory of man as the flower of grass like sagebrush					     God made foolish the wisdom of this world                				put your faith and hope in God and not in men 								 though man's urban inflections change the Word of the Lord stands sure                       Everlasting superior are God's ways than man's momentary dullness

Copyright © John Beam

Details | Prose Poetry | |

What do you do with your DAY and NIGHT

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

(c) 2011

Copyright © Joshua Akinwande

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Daddy's Little Girl

Ballerina’d beauty…
She was always on beat and the most fluent mover. Never hesitant to step out onto her linoleum playground, Letting the stage lights beam down at her like sunshine, only refracting rays to intensify her lime light see she… was a dancer. &no I’m not talking about ya everyday tutu wearing mannequin. This one was special. The music was a part of her, she found a rhythm in every void and a tune in all speeches, it could only, flow thru her mind like water through the globe, more than she runs through my thoughts, like the way those greens slips of sustenance fell to the ground as she worked her pole. 
Tragic ending to the perfect fairytale. 
Mommy and Daddy had her dancing at six and in and out of auditions, wishing for her dreams to be realized unlike her own. Praying that her daughter could be somebody important, the next best thing since Broadway, better than Dejan Tubic, another Janelle Ginestra, but daddy had a sweet spot for his youngin. Wanting more for an innocent life and only turned her out of a fantasy. Pushing her on with the hopes only fools in the Ghetto would believe. Graduation day, she crashed hard, spinning back into reality. With no way to pay for her Julliard dream, a fistful of issues, and not a pot to piss in. She was strolling the block one night, and, heard music. Got sucked into the charisma of a strip joint. One second she was on the corner, everything goes black and when she comes to… she’s bare, with enough ones to get a place and put some food in her belly. That night she looked in the mirror… breaking down crying… all the dreams she had, crushed by the nimble fingers of fate. She doesn’t pity herself for long. Her mind’s already made up. “Gotta do this for me…” She rests, and the next day she finds herself back to the club to make more ones and satisfy more customers. It wasn’t the life she chose, but it’s one she’ll never regret, cause always had that sweet spot for her in el Corazon.. and she’ll always be, Daddy’s Little Girl.

Copyright © William Smalls

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Rambling of a Faith Poet

Sometimes it is hard to know what to write or when to write when you have just about every
thought possible flowing through your head. I wonder, "Should I please the public with
how "poetic" I am or should I please You? I know what the answer is but at times I'm 
worried about being liked or whether people get me. Is my belief in Your Son too far
above their heads or will they get it? Should I even worry about public opinion? Of
course I know as a follower of Christ, sharing my testimony and telling them about the
Lord is what I'm supposed to do. On the other hand, have I become to preachy and
dull? Am I shoving my beliefs down their throats? Then I realize, didn't Jesus make
himself of no reputation? Everybody thought that He was weird, blasphemous and not
qualified to tell them anything when it came to how they were living. I'm only here to do
what He wants me to do, nothing more, nothing less. If I do my part, the right people will
hear it, love it and appreciate it. All I should do, is write the word and leave all my
"rambling worries" to Him.

Copyright © Brandee Augustus

Details | Prose Poetry | |

got to work it out

dont  you wish you could just close your eyes and forget what happen today
but somehow life is life and it dont work out that way
your problem dont  just disappear because this is another day 
and even though you are hoping to forget you still have to deal with yesterday

if you did not settle that problem trust me it will still be there
you may think that it happened yesterday and it will seems  as if life just not fair
and it will weigh heavy on your heart so dont try to act as if you dont care
but before you start taking it out on everyone you need to take it the lord in prayer

now i seen this happen to alot of good people who didnt find disclosure
someone just happen to strike that very nerve and they lost all composer
and all that respect that they had trust me it was all over 
  my advice to you is think about what you do for you dont need that type of exsposer

Copyright © Robert Walker

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sandy Winds Roar

Sandy ‘winds roars, deadly Sandy roar ashore
As the night darken, the people screams no more! No more!
You Ocean whore!
Along the broad walks Hurricane Sandy barreled towards land. ...
Ripping two beautiful little angels from their mother’s hand

 Cockamamie dwellers, fled from their homes 
The high winds were no match for fowl, beast or man

Sandy winds roars, Sandy roar ashore
 Leaving tons of sand;
 On the main land
 Roof tops, the barbed wire, with sharped edges were defeated
 Mortal men lost again to winds of fate.
Sandy winds’ roars, she whistles; she roars ashore.

The long summer of 2012 became a dream
While our footprints fade in the sand 
 
  Our hearts ripped apart
  We prayed in the dark. : For calm and peace
Everywhere she went it was darkness
  Our hearts ripped apart
  We prayed in the dark. : For calm and peace
Please, please! Sandy spared us please.



Copyright © Annie Lander

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Words From My Thoughts

I spent the days looking at the ground
I thought the world had clipped my wings
I spent the hours saying I felt down
I had no strength. I felt entangled in things
And then I hear you called me (Godson)
I set my face into the breeze
I lift my head. I spread my wings and I am free
My heart was heavy in the valley down below
My soul was empty, void of love

My sight was cloud by the dust the world blows
So I set my mind on earth not things above
But now your lifts me up 
From the sick bed in which i lie groaning
I will not be conquered, I am destined for your love
Courage is three letter words
Real courage is saying YES to life
Not backing down when faced with adversity
courage is acting with fear, not without it
Angel! I really love you deep down my heart.

Life is filled with challenges and opportunities
Mountains to be climbed conquered with others to follow
When you are no longer interested in climbing mountains
to see other mountains to climbed, life is over
Vision sees the invisible
Believes the incredible
And then receives the impossible
This makes the blood never to run cold
Because loves for the path of the future lives
A mind that makes Success my QUEEN

Copyright © Lamptey Godson Kofi

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.

Copyright © charles hice

Details | Prose Poetry | |

letters to Mary

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

Copyright © jay o'neal

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Natural starting points

Natural starting -Point 



 The subject of a poem is the idea or thing that the poem concerning or represents
 I review about 15 poem this morning.. and the feeling I got from them, the writer attitude
 toward the subject matter.
 
As a reviewer I cannot praise all the poems that I review. however, I can only encourage them to thrive ... some had a bit or irony , the tone were playful and some of them were some serious submits

Poetry Soup is a wonderful site...
let encourage each other to aim higher..

one love annie L

Copyright © Annie Lander

Details | Prose Poetry | |

CharlaXTitles11

 
Inches make feet without inches there is no foot without beginnings there is no work without measure there is no dearth without a ruler there is no worth there must be rules and there are rules but eye will let them all apply to them my enemies at work and never eye. The horse runs well it has a heart so then they fill syringes from the start to inject the muscles of the neck to make the beast faster than the wind oh heck the animal is dead it never hit the ground but flew too fast and lost the race and life. Desert life is winterless but not without some weather life the sun is always shading and the water is found in sub altern placing near the animals for killing under the ledge of apprehension near the fire of desperation comes the frog and toad and watercrest nut sandwiches. Eye had been to the desert on a horse with no namme it felt good to be out of the rain. Voices come out at me from the air into mye membrain eye call it Disraeli musick it is usually someone in the area with a boom box or even cars with the windows rolled down can be the culprits they hound me when eye am hicking place to place. There is other answers to the crazxy place eye hear noises mad mostly by people in the other cubicles the walls are just invisible the talking is allowed. The thief cannot sneak in sneakers they squeak like he is sweating in his shoe laces. This brings me to mye priority eye. The reason that no one wants to be a Detective is the movies the guy may have had DAMES by the score but he had fights and was so sore the men were ruthless and left him spinning on the side of every road. The streets of New Nuevo York has gum shoe on them. The American idea of Indians and wampum has brought us to the test of food in rest or rants of foreign style they smile and bring the menu back to make certain that the orders write the man has pointed several times at five bills a whack. One from Column A and 2 from Column B brings us to a bill of $23. Well eye wanted some meat too but you are so expansive. Rice and curry hot mustard radishes. Try finding food in the summer time how careful now that eye a homeless one should be then tossing caution to the winding blowing wind when it seems only wrapped so tightly to keep flies at night away. To feed myself is easy to offer some to others almost impossible a few times eye have asked to share they slide that nostril in the air and leave the food to the one that found it in the lair of tossed and discarded things the general city the loose leaf cabbage so nicely adds a bite to the membrain of mye priority eye. 

Copyright © charles hice

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Peers

Peers
Eye remember the last time eye respected and emulated mye peers they peered all over 
mee. While eye jumped from piers with pears and pares the toenails from the edifice of hice 
bewails while jumping pairs of twice brickled edifice pickled in the briny sea side limping on 
both feet after fourteen miles a day of hiking where the sun is shade. Eye have a memory 
that seldom comes but sometimes when annoyed eye remember getting mad at mye new 
friend eye made while travelling. We were sitting in the overpass of freeways looking glasses 
turned down to drain the light of flashes. Eye took mye flashlight to the concrete underpass 
and smashed it. My friend was asking what was wrong with me so eye had to get creative 
quickly. Not wanting to dismember him eye quickly said this was done at your behest not 
understanding none of this he sighed and walked away to live another day that’s best. For 
eye was only wanting solitude and rest. He got drunks and sold the knives. Drunkards 
wanting tankards full furnish many people with foolish things for below cost no advertising 
word of mouth just hand to hand attained detachments. They sell cars at second hand prices 
and deter the will to live. Telling old defeated Granny she must drive like a snail to get there 
and she will. Adding multiples of two and coming to conclusions of one more addled brain a 
female peers out her window now hoping he is still in love he must not understand the 
female mind. Tonite when eye am dead to world in vain misunderstanding of mye namme 
eye will peers from undercovers trying not to cry tomorrow eye will greet that dawn with 
happiness in time. 

Copyright © charles hice

Details | Prose Poetry | |

DeadSeaScrollingbyeCharlaX

Who is Edgar Rice Cakes? What does HE have to do with John Burroughs. Jesus Crisis. a 
google search What is this? A novella nuevo bye charlaxandroidoneseven. CA17. Short for 
Para Cayce. I have read the DeadSeaScrolling. On the PDF machine. Let me inform on my 
brothers in the LORD there is seldom any evidenced.  These fragments of Aromaic Archaic 
would cause language EXPERTS in the field years of Formatting on a Word Processing 
machine. Butt Doctor Caycey has Decided it somehow pertains to Jesus.? Oye Vey.  I 
admitted in a Court Room of lawyers I have not studied all his problems yet I must admit I 
cannot read those fragments of isometric triangular wordage. You must admit these people 
did preserve it as iff it were a GOSPEL message. crisischronicles dot com A cave a bunch of 
yearns placed near the Monestary Remains to find considering the way Climatic Changes 
occur the evelation of the Earth is never level Seas rise where desert climes once failed to 
thrive. Perhaps a sub culture of Future Post Apolyptic Snow Men; all white and hairy like the 
Yeti. Abominable in every way with patches of glowing purple hair where the radiation has 
burned some of the fur away to reveal faults underneath no clothing there. They find a 
pristene City walk into the Revolving Door and fall back out until Discovering when to exit 
one. What fun. The lobby generator comes on. The Computor Hums. One Yeti moves the 
mouse Experimentally they gape at Windows song. Not one of them Yeti can get the 
Computor to do anything they are all just too old. A Robot walks up to the terminal. May I 
help you SIRS? and /or Madames? They step back agape at this hairless ape a tinsel steel 
replica of charlaxandroidoneseven. He types in poetrypoem dot com charlax7 Let me show 
you my website boys? Do you like poetry as prose? As they fall about the place guffawing 
they come out rolling the first time I ever saw a bunch of Yeti lawghing. So here we pause. 
As DeadSeaScrollingbyeCharlaX grows cold. 

Copyright © charles hice

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Damp Enthusiasm Of A Work Horse

They caught us young,
Doing just about nothing,
Minutes after the schooling hour,
As though naivety was born of middle age,
Bronzed by the sun and the glee,
Of the summer reign,
Pouring down the clarity of havened silk,
Across unsoiled pores,
That now hang like bags,
Of black ash from my cheekbones,

The damp enthusiasm of a work horse,
And the eggs it's laying,
Repetitive in the strain of syndrome,
As Cycles Repeat,
Those with all my money,
Have heavenly retreats,

I'm worshiping the deutschmark,
Whilst sipping from my lord's cup,
Winter brings it fragrant skylarks,
So charming and not so corrupt,

Older now but still with spirit,
Vodka being the main ghost,
That haunts and rots at the belly,
Such is the modern dieting tool,
Of the calorie dispensed,
Some days this tie feels like a noose,
We all take turns in hanging from.


Also Published in The Synthesist, Issue 3 (PS Avalon Publishing)

Copyright © Kristian Cole

Details | Prose Poetry | |

DeadSeaScrollingbyeCharlaX

Who is Edgar Rice Cakes? What does HE have to do with John Burroughs. Jesus Crisis. a 
google search What is this? A novella nuevo bye charlaxandroidoneseven. CA17. Short for 
Para Cayce. I have read the DeadSeaScrolling. On the PDF machine. Let me inform on my 
brothers in the LORD there is seldom any evidenced.  These fragments of Aromaic Archaic 
would cause language EXPERTS in the field years of Formatting on a Word Processing 
machine. Butt Doctor Caycey has Decided it somehow pertains to Jesus.? Oye Vey.  I 
admitted in a Court Room of lawyers I have not studied all his problems yet I must admit I 
cannot read those fragments of isometric triangular wordage. You must admit these people 
did preserve it as iff it were a GOSPEL message. crisischronicles dot com A cave a bunch of 
yearns placed near the Monestary Remains to find considering the way Climatic Changes 
occur the evelation of the Earth is never level Seas rise where desert climes once failed to 
thrive. Perhaps a sub culture of Future Post Apolyptic Snow Men; all white and hairy like the 
Yeti. Abominable in every way with patches of glowing purple hair where the radiation has 
burned some of the fur away to reveal faults underneath no clothing there. They find a 
pristene City walk into the Revolving Door and fall back out until Discovering when to exit 
one. What fun. The lobby generator comes on. The Computor Hums. One Yeti moves the 
mouse Experimentally they gape at Windows song. Not one of them Yeti can get the 
Computor to do anything they are all just too old. A Robot walks up to the terminal. May I 
help you SIRS? and /or Madames? They step back agape at this hairless ape a tinsel steel 
replica of charlaxandroidoneseven. He types in poetrypoem dot com charlax7 Let me show 
you my website boys? Do you like poetry as prose? As they fall about the place guffawing 
they come out rolling the first time I ever saw a bunch of Yeti lawghing. So here we pause. 
As DeadSeaScrollingbyeCharlaX grows cold. 

Copyright © charles hice

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Cottons Southern Man

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

Is It Poetry

Copyright © Poetry Is It

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Humbled Part 1

. .. ... .. . . . "~ (~) ~" ......... ........ ....... ...................... ........... "~ (~) ~ (~) ~ (~) ~" ........... ...................... ....... ....... ....... ....... ....... ....... ....... ....... ....... ....... ....... ....... ~ (~) ~ (~) ~ (~) ~ ~ (~) "I believe True Humility is Innocent, and free - evolving through- life continually- aspiring before- God-and-man to- move in Gratitude - and being Heavenly, and Gracious, Tenderly- aware - it is Always Surrendering- itself to the Opportunity - remaining-Unconditionally- Faithful-to-This-Principal, and Overtly-Willing-to- abide in Peace and- Unity with-the- World-around- it - thereby - being recreated - itself; before the- brevity of-it's days; given-whatever - the-limitation; or-matter". (~) ~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Thank you. I would like to thank particularly as I am adopted my many Mothers, and Fathers, family's and friends and the family whom I am not with now of my marriage ... . Your patience with me along with God's the time shared is the reason I stand here today. My work was mainly inspired by one of the greatest poets I believe to ever live. I believe with all that was in him he wrote, and with all that was in him he lived for what he wrote. Mainly two poems. Among others. The poems *Mending Wall* & *The Road Not Taken.*. Written By none other than *Robert Frost*. These two poems sum up all of his work I believe, as well as mine. I wrote a poem inspired by both. Here it is. The words of this poem form in the shape and reference a picture of me as a lad, also center alined it forms an open vessel ready to be filled. ""Written for my angels ((INSPIRATION") Raquel, and Jonathan. "Take-untrodden- paths, LIVE... !"" ~ (~) ~ (~) ~ (~) ~ (~) ~ (~) ~ (~) ~ (~) ~ http://allpoetry.com/ban/show/6960 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cwgKmXLLzT8&feature=more_related

Copyright © James Long

Details | Prose Poetry | |

One30four

 One30four 
One30four 
 
 
CharlaXFabels 
 
YahooEmailsplitter.com 
 
 Los Angeles California dateline Wed. April 9, 2008 
“Just in over the wire” 
Flash: Yahoo.com just unveiled the newest discovery 
made in the laboratory the Emailsplitter. 
Due to secrecy the news just leaked out of the California offices 
the Head of Yahoo Constance Dean was talking to the press only moments ago. 
IN a very nasally voice this is Dean talking “We have to credit CharlaX for this 
discovery he sent us an emale to ask us to split the infinitive email to make them 
become two three or four copies at the same time so that when you folder email 
you can put one email into several different folders at the same time”. There is no 
need to be so excited we have been working on very similar things for a very long 
boredom so when that brilliant fabulist sent to us his wants we only filled them”. 
The product report is filed in the Government Documents and hidden from the 
public eye. Eye went to the yahoo email and signed in the thing is there the link is 
all it was so strange a thing to see just above the inbox beside compose it just 
says splitme on the button when you have a message to be foldered into more 
than one folder just hit the purple button. Then go down and click on the folders 
to enable them the boxes look just like the ones on contacts it must have been 
hard to add the software good job yahoo for a job well done. “Hats off to ewe” and 
waving my middle finger as well that's a gesture of respected glee the yahoo 
company keep making our free email better. Thank you YAHOO for the 
emailsplitter. Just go now mye gentle reader ewe to YahooEmailsplitter.com to 
get the updated version. 

Copyright © charles hice

Details | Prose Poetry | |

ONE100eight

 ONE100eight 
ONE100eight 
 
CharlaXFabels 
 
 
www.three 
 
SUN TRAN history 
 
 Passenger Pigeons carry messages to people entrenched at 
www.wwone/ditched in doughboy britches wearing Army boots of wool 
 August 3, 1914 special free edition of the BerlinTageblatt announces "The War 
with France” The Kaiser rolled away and fell from Germany the world is saved 
they proclaim the war is over 1918   
 His hat was very black and ebon his vest hung down in back front was cut in 
western sling style his hair was off white gray an old gunslinger out of old 
Tucson days. He took a transfer out of his pants pocket and tried to slide it in the 
bus to make it work but the driver had turned it off to see his face light up he had 
been caught for this was the very first bus. NO the driver said simply with a smile 
that will not work and left it at that and up to him he did not frown but added the 
dollar paid the money for the fare the first time not again his bogus attempt at a 
free ride had failed. He took his transfer paid he learned his western lesson 
there the driver being kind and understanding could have been demanding that 
he leave the bus and March 24, 2008 has come the carrier pigeons are taking 
messages to www.wwtwo.com the war is over Hitler dead go home and live 
without a gun without a dread.  She simply simpered she opened up her bag a 
purse no doubt without a dime or dollar amount inside her friend paid for hisself 
one dollar kept the transfer in his hand she kept repeating to herself for all the 
crowd to understand eye left the wallet with the money in it at home the wallet MY 
wallet is NOT in this bag it has been left at home the man he seemed astonied 
when she said in certain tones did you get a pass for me NO he said don't you 
remember my pass and your pass is both in your wallet left at home the driver 
moaned a bit but let her be she let them ride he said eye gave to you my pass to 
keep for me she said so sad MY WALLET is NOT in this bag it is left behind at 
home IT'S EVERYTHING the carrier pigeon flew with messages to the troop in 
the trenchment ditch at www.worldwarthree.com/apocolypse 
The message simply said 
we airmailed 
 every missle 
that we have 
to hit the enemy 
the world is over now 
do not try to do anything 
just pray 
we are all going to see 
JESUS 
NOW 
TODAY 

Copyright © charles hice

Details | Prose Poetry | |

~ In the Innocence Sublime ~

We lay fallen as velvet roses divinity-promenading in our wake. Innocence sublime weeping still-puddles... blessing-our-first-kiss. Beauty eminent one heart securing all we share-tongues-entwined hopes defined joined together-soaring-free-as-one... a kin to love, swept-away-by-it-we-were... . I believe the heart of grace adamant, generous-tender and-aware honest and faithful- awaiting-patiently... moves freely, because it knows, the-pureness of love always inspires the-opportunity, and so enchantment-gazed upon innocence and desire knew-itself, when-first God showed Adam Eve... ! Now-here today as time has-kept-us in-its ardent-march-I-say I believe-it was-the same with-him back then... . Because simple-smiles day-dreams and quiet eye-beams alone... for me-too-with-you just wouldn't have been-enough, and-when-I-think-of-you, I thank-God for the blessing of our-time, because my heart enchanted, elated, complete... from-here on-out will I forever- know-and be-grateful to-have-loved the-beautiful-angel, that is you. As-so-enticed by the light in your-eyes, the hopeful-manner the-playfulness of your-lips, I tell-you-intrigued, to entwine-them-together, (with mine)... ! I figured I'd have a day to share, and a lifetime, from-then-on, (to touch)... . (if only just), I-could-chance to-embrace them... ((once)). Author notes The hyphens are all used in conjunction-with one-another for recording-purposes for the- disabled... . My Mac computer I can here and as it interprets the differing punctuations it gives the work in there differing usages a clearer and more realistic soft higher and lower Ebb and Flo when it is heard... ! The work can as well be reformatted into proper engine form for those whom may not be disabled... ! Entered into this contest as such and mainly for these reasoning's... ! Thank you for allowing and for considering my entry. I am entirely honored to be a small part... ! Written for my Jenny... . ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ....... ...... ..... .... ... .. . http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jqTLlHkfSC4

Copyright © James Long

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Reality coming true

Reality coming true is my dream
As one day I hope to achieve big
Courage eager makes me work like steam
Once I lose a chance I will sit like a pig

I hope to be a neurosurgeon
So that I help a lot of needy people
As I never want to others dreams fall in a dungeon
Since I don’t want problems to stick on them like a pimple

My dream to travel over seas
To see how other people live
I will never want it to be crushed like peas
Since I always work hard so that I will jive

I always dream no fighting war
As we lose a lot of innocent women and men
We will result into family of the lost to fall
As they have no where to write with a pen

I dream a world of no hunger
As most children are suffering a lot
We result into the locals anger
The anger grows until it red hot

Copyright © tanaka chirombo