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Prose Poetry Write Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Write

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

Seasons and Imaginations


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

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

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



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Close enough

Closer to the clouds 
Soaring through the soft misty flocks of vapour
Higher
Touching the overstretched never ending horizons
Stronger
Closer to the clouds
Reaching for the elusive galaxy scattered with stars
Wiser.


Metempirical
Scenes
Outside my window, birds perched on window panes
Breathing the hopes of life
Burying their worries, letting them go
Soaring away the pains of yesterday
Home
The distance reassures me of the longer road I have
Waiting working of what might come
Relieving the old alleys
Streets that left me hanging, roaming 
Stranded with loneliness

Pause
Break from the fast pace of life
Dive into total surrender
Break from our shallow life filled with plans
The never ending ambitious dreams
Capturing each moment, not giving any a miss

Forgotten
The small sentiments
The simple notions
The innocent thoughts 
And the crazy bedlams
Unfortunate
Life
Thrive, we will.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Poetry is the answer

What impels us so late at night 
to rise up and turn on the light 
to sit down and begin to write 
a poem if the feeling is right? 

For some the answer is simple enough. 
but others must crack a nut that is tough. 
It’s more than rhyme it's that and bigger stuff. 
A finished poem, a diamond no longer rough. 

There is much to be said of many things, 
of wording it right and the joy it brings, 
a quality tone just right when it sings, 
when it ends it's as true as it begins. 

What impels us so late at night 
to rise up and turn on the light 
to sit down and begin to write 
a poem if the feeling is right? 

An un-crafted word, just like a fetter. 
Un practiced in words, we are the debtor.
And for proof, view any written letter. 
Poems fill a need to say it better. 

thanks for the recomendations Reason A. Poteet 
edited by Monty Newman on 11/25/2010


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Pleasure in Possibilities


Writing my prose,
unmeasured.
Sometimes I try poesy,
another pleasure.
Untrained. Unskilled.
But, what a joy!
to freedom,
my thoughts I find.
And so, as day by weeks
would turn into a lifetime, could be
the possibilities concocted by gods
may be.


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.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ode to the Writer

Play you noted Lyricists! Let not your lyrics be missed! Your silence is the frequency, Enticed by a laced melody Condemned in a rhythmic spell Only time will really tell Your lyrical harmony Etched in life's symphony Oh Hail! Or Hale! Kings of speech! May your words reign or rain on minds in preach Let knowledge rule as you teach You are to blame for the popular fiction And the lost hip hop depiction Your vowel movement is the mission As they are tuning to wrong station So arise oh sons of scribes! Let not fame be your weakening bribes The mystery is your story is still empty but the words to be written are plenty I plant thy in the soil of possibility, growing history in eternity Let the acclaimed awaiting your spark, put page to flame, Illuminating the shame where fiction is no longer fame Arise masters of word! The creators of a new world. Your potency is cryptic avalanche in dormant To awaken minds with your content With an earth shattering rumble you move earth with your stumble Tripping all over your-self to cause a rampage and turn a page marked in history That leads to the bread crumbs of destiny, displaying your self-mastery Oh again rise blood line of prophets! Be not sold out by profits. Your words intertwine the future with the past As ignorance over knowledge shall never be surpassed So your prophecies can be for the youth’s benefits And lost in the realm of the elder’s forfeit While bleeding your ink work, flooding the stage Flowing ears steadily from age to age I say rage warrior of the Pens! This is the age of ignorance ends. As wielders of the pen die by the pen are heard Gutting and stabbing the paper in furry blurred Let those pens bleed till society flood Cleansing it with its righteous blood To awakened other giants from their slumber Killing silence's winter into summer Where ignorance is not left to its own devise Only your golden silence should be an adequate price


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Poet

I have gazed long at the turbulent
  while piled high cloud masses
I have watched the millions of stars at night
  the damp fog has come and surrounded me
and the land is silent
  the fresh rain has laved my face
while the wind blew warmly.

I receive no message from these for humankind
  but hear only their message to me;
for they awaken the wonder that is in me
  in addition, the yeaning that is the depth of my soul.

They do not tell me to scatter my words
  through the world like seeds
rather, they say, Behold! be of us 
  and wing out beyond the world forever
and in my soul the deep yearning pleads for the
  fulfillment of its' aching desire
to go with the sun, moon and the stars
  and seek with them the answer to eternity.

But still the clouds, ebon faced, mass against
  the fiery red rays of the setting sun
the stars, far distant, in space, still glitter
  brightly in the patterns
the fog, white by day, grey by night
  moves yet noiselessly on, giving intimacy
to near things, and strangeness to
  those looming on the edge of vision
the rain falls yet too, cleansing and releasing
  the perfume of the wet earth.

So I write
  letting the words of my unrest
go freely where they would
  for each word is deflection
from the longing within me
  of all the voices I must heed and may not.

However, I cannot write in the dark
  I cannot write as I stand on the hill gazing
yet the yearning is there most of all
  therefore! I say aloud, convincingly
"It is only lovely"
  to wander on through the night and day
and the years. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

We Expand

When I was a kid, i believed that I would never stop growing. I measured myself, and knew that everything taller was a glimpse of the future. 
We would all be giants eventually. The tallest man that ever lived was named Robert Wadlow. He couldn't stop growing. On his first day of school, 
he was taller than his father. They say, that when he tripped on the playground his knees made twin craters from falling so far. By the time he was 10, the dirt in his home town was pot-marked like a second moon. 
Size always seems to matter most when we are falling. An ant dropped from an airplane will survive with no injuries, if an elephant slips 3 feet, 
it's legs will snap beneath it, and or us, it is those dreams that we remember most. The ones where the harness breaks. 
Where you step from the roof of a building without knowing why. When a plane rushes back toward the earth like a lost lover. We always wait just before impact, unsure of shattering or survival, 
and unable to accept our own size. 
Maybe this is why we hunt the large animals to extinction; To make ourselves seem greater. In the end, the victory of the atom bomb was not in the arms raised, but it's ability to topple all of the smallest creatures. We dream of surviving as mountains; of never having to look up again. 
We long for longer conquests. 
The ship vaster than the ocean. 
The fire dwarfing the fuel. We expand. We expand,. 
Weapons add more than just inches to your arm span. When you fire a gun, you can touch someone a thousand of feet away just think of all the giants our wars have already created. Cemeteries are like an infinity of white cross hairs. Mass graves that are just twisting of what we have always wanted; A mountain built from our bodies. We expand, we expand,. 
Our empires, stretching like red lips opening into the widest sssmile, and then swallowing the face whole. We build our largest statues for our war heroes, greater your conquest, the taller we will make you. We are taller than our fathers now. We cannot stop growing. Robert Wadlow did not want to be a legend. He wanted to train as a lawyer, but his hands were to large to 
write and type with. He died at age 22, half an inch short of 9 feet from an infection he never felt, because his nerves could not transmit signals that far. So stop trying to be statues. 
Walk. 
Feel the signals your feet send back to you and say "It is good to feel this close". It is good to live in our own bodies. Our bodies are whispers. Are bodies are matchsticks in the dark that light the small parts of us; The parts of us that can accomplish impossible things.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WRITE - IT MAY BE TRUE

BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WRITE – IT MAY BE TRUE



It is a myth that people can be objective in their opinions.
People focus on qualities in others that they themselves have.
A kind person sees only kindness in others,
A mean person sees the meanness in others,
A kind person does not focus on the meanness of others.
This holds true for poetry fans, like me, like you:
Some SOUPER  who talks about “the gritty, sharp, philosophical feel that you create”
Or who uses an expression like “ slitting the poetic wrists of a word weaver” 
Is indeed such a person, such a poet.
When a speaker assesses another as “an architect of words”
Who  can have you “reeling  with  sumptuous dialogue…applause!”
Then it seems to me that the speaker is in reality such a  person.
Some guy can say “this may be brushed with light tones
But the sentiment is friggingly deep...”
And some gal may offer “bewitched am I with this exquisite expo on a bloom”,
And in both cases they are the true poet;  and moreover,
If someone is kind enough to like a piece of verse and to say so,
It is an act of highly personal significance for the poet who writes, 
For poets almost always write from the heart about their inner world, 
Entered only by invitation  to special people.  The poem is the invitation: 
Written so that  only those who understand will respond. 
Poetry is a foreign language to most people, 
To whom  reading it is like playing Beethoven* with mittens on,   
Or drinking French wine*  with a coca-cola chaser:
The true inner effect is completely absent.    
Write to other poets often,  for when we tell another of our admiration, 
It reveals our own self in plain words.

……………………………………………………


NOTES

*Beethoven    =  deaf old guy who wrote tunes.  
  He and I have much in common,  except  I  don’t   write tunes.

*French wine   =  the finest  in the world – as claimed by the French.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

116onesix

 116onesix 
116onesix 
 
 
CharlaXFabels 
 
TESTED 
 
 There is a personal testimony and everyone's focus is on the group and on the 
self and not on JESUS where it was supposed to be the reason eye won't go to 
fellowship with rich working Christians meeting at a SUNDAY SUPPER to drive to 
a pizza place where everyone pays something for the food even if they share it the 
cost is still beyond the pocketbook of yew. The added price of fellowship with 
world is loss of spirit functions eye am not suggesting we have meetings in the 
desert with the hedgehogs but there could be a meeting place for all the 
Christians like the fish doors of the early days of meetings they were in and out 
so furtive searching alleyways for soldiers avoiding arrests and fighting and 
bringing lots of food in the bags of fishes and the loaves of breads in pockets of 
the tunaes fishes smile eye could just not resist this in almost every Church 
there is a Kitchen and in some of them is love the people make the soup for the 
homeless and the court appointed prisoners and even important people come. 
Hang a fish upon the door of every kitchen in the nation make a place with tables 
where the poor can come in love do not forget the love the soup is  nice but even 
slabs of raw meat are not enough with hate. 
Eye could not write a word on yesterday the things that eye had wanted to write 
left on the flight of lost ideas and night came again without a thought and then the 
day came back this fable was born and eye decided to try religion again. The 
focus of a lot of people is the congregation the error being life is not a middle 
class house with people making money in a paper plate of life some people 
need a cup of soup just to survive please open up your love first open up your 
hearts then open all them kitchen cupboards up. There is another thing that eye 
must say to all the bible thumpers not yet in the grave what does it matter what 
the date and day of this my own salvation come the day of JESUS was 33 AD the 
date that GOD was saving me. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hot Summer

Over writing, reading is a joy
I saw a mirage that I thought
Was a water!  Summer time.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Writing is an art; I am an artist

Don’t criticize me for loathing mathematics
I don’t like history, I’m not one for dates.
I thank the Lord for my patience,
While I’m gone, my pen awaits.

I write about goals, about dreams and the like
Perhaps today’s will be a story, an insight to the human psyche.
Once my pen meets the paper, it will not stop,
Like a river, it runs its course, twisting through the mountains,
Useless dams will keep it still, but that’s not how nature
Designed it.

So distract me with your lessons, and teach me all you can.
But know that when the day is done, my pen has the last stand.
Perhaps I will incorporate my impatience with history and math
Into my writing today.
No, I think I will write about my story.  The peace, and love that
Your lessons cannot teach me.  I don’t need to know who won what war, 
In order to succeed.  
I only need my pen, compassion, and feelings.  
My life is complete.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

to The Public

Not really a poem, but the truth of my being.

To the Public
WLM
Wildncrazy555
June 28, 2011

When I write the words just flow. I get an inspiration or a thought and have to write it down. 
Why, I do not know.  They just flow and all follow a story.  I write my innermost thoughts with 
the deepest passion imaginable and all are TRUE life experiences which have occurred in my life. 
I am diagnosed Severe Bipolar Disorder and disabled and draw SSDI. I no longer have to work 
from over 40 yrs in Maintenance and 2 degrees in Electronics and Electrical maintenance. I do 
draw disability now for over 2 yrs time and depression is a daily bout which I face every day, 
but try to be positive. The medicine I take is for my head and helps with mood swings and 
depression. As to date, I cannot read many of my works as I Bawl like a baby at most of 
them.  I remember when and how I felt when I wrote them.  But all of them follow a story to 
the end.  I cannot recite a single one because once written they are gone, otherwise they eat 
my Brain.  I am crying now as I write this and divulge my deepest thoughts and experiences of 
my life. I feel better now that it is gone from my head folks.  When a situation arises, I just 
know which ones will deserve recognition to be told.  I suffer from arthritis on my left side, my 
hands hurt all the time, and I practice herbal medicine for the pain.  I create my own remedies 
from my herbologist named Daryl Collins here in Okmulgee, he gives me the herbs and I am 
the guinea pig first and foremost for the experience.  Anyone else who suffers from this can 
contact me at trenton6896@yahoo.com.  I am willing to tell you the recipe for my
Creations.  I hope all appreciate this testimony of mine.  All I say is true to fact.
							William Lewis Moore
							June 28, 2011


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Prose Mine Prys

‘At play with words’

Cork thine eyes 
Cloaking lucent verbose halls 
Surely binding shutting tight 

Cork thine eyes 
Clutching goblet sipping falls 
Drunk seduction bending sight 

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

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

This poem explained

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

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

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

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

T.R.Sevrens


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Deliver My Soul

Deliver My Soul

Deliver my soul 
From the pain of each day;
Just come and love me
In a very special way.

Daily I think of you
I really care so much;
Daily I long to feel
Your very special touch.

MY days are getting shorter
The time on earth will past
An my heart will never feel the love
That I desire from you at last.

I know the outside displays
A sight that many can’t stand;
But yet there’s a heart inside
That desire to be loved by a special man.

I write words of my emotions
I write words I just want to share;
And daily I often Pray
That one day you will really care.
 


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if He was you

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Previous - Next"If He was you..."
Gently the wind blows ‘cross the faces
Of nations and lands of indistinct races
As the wind whips the flags, the crags of the arrogant faces
And the elitist who wear these blindest disgraces

The proud and the few, who publish what’s “true”, amid assumptions that flue
And echo in caverns of morals and right, being so wrong, ‘tis so obviously true
The patterns of fascists reflect in their you
As they contrive to survive their destruction so due

“We the people…”

in order to form a more perfect union, do wander
amid thoughts and imagines we meaningless wonder
what to think, and, finding thoughts, we pause, ponder clause
and make with logics sharp claws

"we the people..."

have thoughts, some not nice, some epicly so, in nature
and submit them all to our hearts legislature
if not just a seconds reflections of others
having no application to me or my brothers
then, to debate, or not, such is the right
of those who would not blindly blight

"We the people..."

the heart is the judge, a debate may take place
would i hurt, those i love, those who love, those who try
would i harm those who mean well, those i never can tell, just in case
would i fly, in formations with eagles, or contrive to lie

with the hogs

if the hogs would lie with me...

and if i
or even, i submit, if you
would

remember that "flue"?

what is it?

"would"?
"wood"?

"We the people..."

flew.

question:
"who are, for all the money in the world...
Shadrach, Meshack, and Abednego?"
and, if you had a God, or if you do, what would He want, or, if He was you...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

AS A MAN I STAND

AS A MAN I STAND WHEN I WAS BORN I WAS UNABLE TO SEE WHERE I AM AS A MAN I 
STAND WHEN I WAS 9 MOUNTH I WAS ABLE TO CRAWL, WALK, AND RUN TO MY MOM THAT 
HELD ME WITH OPEN HANDS AS A MAN I STAND WHEN I WAS 1 I WAS ABLE TO TELL MY 
MOM THAT I LOVE HER FOR GIVEN ME A CHANCE TO SEE THE WORLD AS A MAN I STAND 
WHEN I WAS 5 I WAS ABLE TO WRITE MY NAME SO MY TEACHER COULD KNOW WHO I AM 
AS A MAN I STAND WHEN I WAS 10 I WAS ABLE TO READ, WRITE AND SPELL IF I HAD A 
PROBLEM I COULD ADD OR SUBTRACTED FROM MY HANDS AS A MAN I STAND GOD 
SHOWED ME WHO I AM AS A MAN I STAND