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Prose
Poem
Salvation comes with a far greater sacrifice than blind faith and car-wash fundraisers
Travelling to a foreign land,
engaging in a cause not rightfully yours to join,
illegally taking up arms
with a desperate desire to save baby orphans
(only to dig them into the ground anyway);
is a life-altering experience.
There is an old line which goes something like:
"A part of my soul died on that cold, November morn."
But, such an experience can have the opposite effect entirely.
Yes! An experience such as this
can re-kindle a passion within,
so that every single particle,
every minute of each passing hour,
feels like a sacred gift -
the most sacred gift imaginable.
Yet upon returning home from such an experience,
after being grilled by Internal Affairs,
threatened with charges of International Treason,
Subterfuge and Espionage(but in the end,
you were only trying to save baby orphans
that you had to dig into the ground anyway,
so Internal Affairs drops the charges, telling you to scram),
you are inevitably slapped across the face
with an inescapable new reality....
....everyone appears to be whining and complaining
about the most trivial things,
as if everyone simultaneously feels wronged.
And this is wot you feel compelled to do:
you want to take these whiners,
transport them one-by-one
back to the foreign land with you.
After they see living skeletons
drag themselves across the dirt,
moaning, groaning, pleading for a drop of clean water,
a miniscule morsel of food,
you hand the whiner a gun,
point toward an ominous dust-cloud on the horizon,
and this is wot you say:
"See the dust-cloud moving closer towards us.
It is filled with psychopathic horsemen.
These psychopathic butchers are wielding bayonets, machetes and Kalashnikovs.
If you and I do not successfully kill these mad horsemen,
they are going to chop apart all of the baby orphans
congregated in the courtyard over there.
Do you see the beautiful baby orphans in the courtyard?
Yes, those are the orphans.
And if we do not successfully defend this camp,
yet somehow survive with our lives,
we are going to spend the rest of the night
digging the baby orphans into the ground.
So, it best be high time you wipe the tears from your face,
stop worrying about how so-and-so called you a loser or wotever,
how your retirement funds appear to be shrinking
and so you won't be able to play as many games
of hitting the little white ball across a course
fed with enough water to run an entire city.
Forget about your little boo-boo.
Pull-up your chin, straighten that spine,
and start squeezing the trigger like there's no tomorrow."
September 25th, 2011
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Prose
Poem
Super Soupers
It was a rainy day so I flipped through a stack of comics
My Amazing Poet series
Finally I picked the fabulous Five
I liked the picture on the front
Yanny the Zen Master with long black hair
Becca the Creative and Beautiful with her mythical pen
One of my favorites sultry Eileen known as the Emotionator
Anne the Philosopher was right there beside Eileen with her magical smile
Then to round out this team was Vicky Victorious calling from the wilderness
In this edition they were battling the Poet Destroyer and Joker Jack
who had kidnapped Newbie Timothy Hicks
As I read their words I was in awe of my Heros
They made me cry
They brought me to new worlds
Filled with adventures
Sexy had new meaning
Tears became diamonds
Winds swirled inside my head
All the emotions of the rainbow
I longed to write with such clarity and strength
I tried to flex my poetic Muscles
Worked out every day
Then on the back of the comic
A scrawny poet sat on a beach
Beside the girl of his dreams
He is writing for her when along comes a muscular poet
The big poet kicks metaphorical sand in his face
The the scrawny poets girl is whisked away
Underneath it says
Are you tired of having Metaphorical sand kicked in your face?
Are other Poets getting the girl?
All that can change
Join the Andrea Dietrich School of Creative Poetry
She will have you writing like The Fabulous Five
You will never be afraid to flex those poetic muscles again
So I cut out the back page and sent my five dollars
The address is PO Box 88888 Inspiration California
Now all I can do is wait
What will the future Hold?
Note there are many Poets here who would appear in my vast Amazing poet series.
Poet Destroyer and Joker Jack are not Evil nemeses they were chosen for the roll
because of their names( also I love their work.) I hope you enjoyed my little tale.
Some of the younger poets may not be familiar with the Charles Atlas ads that used
to be on the back of comics, the rest of you I am sure will get the joke.
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Prose
Poem
She read me Dr Seuss
6:35 A.M.
Sunrise against my neck
that no cheap tan booth could ever match.
I ring the doorbell in anticipation of joy’s injection.
I needed it.
Because I left my cell phone in the car,
as I didn’t want to hear any chimed email
or text annoyances.
And the car just got cleaned,
only for the birds to have their way
on its waxy shine.
Bastards!
Time to grab the flamethrower from my trunk!
But, before I could scream in Braveheart declaration,
there she was.
Her 6 yr old smile,
made of 1/4 inch gaps between innocence enamel,
captured me like no other could.
“Tio”, she preached in angelica sonata.
As she held me,
held me,
with puppy love warmth.
Even the rainbows fell to its knees.
She took off my jacket with ferret-like perkiness and
asked me to sit on the floor with her.
But, not before offering to toast me some Eggo waffles
with a big glass of Ovaltine…
…in her Little Mermaid glass,
proudly made in North Korea.
It even had the dictator’s initials and a bucktooth smiley face stamp, signed in glitter
that said:
“Kid-safe”.
Thank God I just took my online course in Child Safety.
I was ready!
As I sip on Little Mermaid’s curves,
shaped in plastic, swirly straw weirdness,
a sound blasts off from a Barbie radio.
My 2 yr old angel galloped into this heart of mine,
with Tinnitus piercing scream & laughter,
tackling me in Incredible Hulk lunge.
“Hi Tio”, she whispered, before she hopped back upstairs,
Ninja Turtle-style,
laughing maniacally with rapid head tilts, left to right to left.
Boys will fear her.
And I couldn’t be more proud.
After two moments of silence,
my 6 yr old angel places her Dr. Seuss book on my lap,
as she sits in front of me.
“I can r-r-read
with my eye-s
shut.”
She carefully completed the sentence,
as my eyes instantly fill with leaky pride
and an ingrained smile.
10 minutes later, she shut her book and asked me how she did.
“I am so proud of you my angel.”
“You have come so far.”
I had to hold back tears because I didn’t want to throw her off.
Yet I think she knew,
because she kept her head down and smiled with gentle starburst.
Mission accomplished.
And it was then where I heard her say,
“Those who matter don’t mind,
those who mind don’t matter.”
But she was quiet, looking at me with tilted head & smile.
For it was my inner child,
speaking
clear.
© Drake J. Eszes
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Prose
Poem
Echoes of the Heart
I came to visit the old baseball field in the dying town where I grew up. It was less than a whisper of what it once was. My first steps on the dirt sent my chest to thumping, and the still wind held the scent of chalk and nachoes. I could see the shadows of my youth running the bases, and I wondered if those steps had ever taken me anywhere. I made my way to the scraps of homeplate and dug my feet into the same ruts I'd stood in over twenty years ago. The decayed plate was like bones of forgotten friends, and I gave it a tap with a bat I would never hold again. My vision narrowed to see a pitch that would never come. I swung. Somewhere in the distance of my memory, I heard a crack. I looked to the dugout at the ghosts of my teammates and grinned. I looked behind to the empty bleachers and gave a nod to my grandfather. The pride in his ancient eyes was as bright then as it ever had been. In the silence, the crowds roar was like magic. Then, for what I knew to be the last time, I ran. I ran with all the thunder of a thousand feet, kicking up the dust of a thousand games. I ran with all the joy and speed of summers past. I ran with heartache and wishes, and echoes ... of a hollow sound.
Caleb A. Smith
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Prose
Poem
Why must I Cry
I come to the garden along, while the dew is still fresh
on the meadows. Early in the morning do the bird's sing
praises of roses and peddles. I cry, because there is no
refuge finally from the pain.
Yet long ago, a child was born, to become king, and yes
there is hope, just for believing in his name. Where is this King!
when I'm hurting and alone? He's just a prayer away, don't give
up, for he's Alpha and Omega, which means, just be strong!.
So they sent me to a place, to turn my life around. I cry, be-
cause, I am somebody no longer am I bound.
Now I know that Jesus is my refuge and no more drugs is
there for I. Thank you Lord, for the method, that's "Why Must
I Cry".
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Prose
Poem
Deep Dark Poem
~Deep Dark Poem~
Tonight I want to go deeper in my soul
I want to be born again tonight I want
to go back in my mothers womb and feel
my happiness of my first cry yet feel her
real pain while she was delivering me
I want to feel both all her pain and the
little of happiness I had since I was born.
I want to feel each breath I breathed since
that first night I want to see my fathers
eyes if he had a tear of happiness while
holding me for the first time .
I want to walk talk laugh cry climb defeat
succeed breath suffocate scream eat drink
revive my senses I want to hold her breast
and be a baby again I don't want to grow
Old yet I want to remain a new born in her
arms to feel safe I want to hold my fathers
glasses and see the color of his eyes will I
have them will I have his nose will I have
my mothers softness will I cry for help will
I see and hear and listen and run and walk
and hold her hand to feel safe I am lost
tonight I need her grip.
I need my brother who carried me where is
he today why did he leave me so early and
die so young I want to eat with them I want
to share with them in what state of mind
I am in tonight I want to go home tonight
to my mother and fathers home I want to
see their light at their home as I am living
through my darkest hours tonight.
But I cannot as all what I want
I cannot have.
I want their faithful love I want to sleep
on their bed and feel the warmth of their
love in our home where I was born and
after years I was torn away from them
to live in another mans home.
They forgot to tell me how much they
have suffered when I left their home and
went away they forgot to tell me so many
things that iI am experiencing them now
today yesterday and tomorrow my life
passed away so quickly busy bringing up
my kids busy giving them an education
busy cooking for them busy working to
provide for them everything busy washing
busy crying busy going out busy busy where
are they now where was I when my father
left to climb up his ladder where was I
when my mothers turn arrived to climb up her
ladder and stay next to him they went up to
meet their son who left them years ago he
was only 29 years old they had to live suffering
suffering missing missing him their first born
for years and years.
Father of my 2 boys thee only ecstasy
I had during that marriage nothing was
real except my kids nothing existed except
them nothing meant anything in my world
except them nothing ever passed before
them they are my light when i am blind
they are my laughter in my inside they
are with me with every breath I breath
we are inseparable even when they are
far I see them when its dark I see them
when I am deaf I hear them through my
strength I survive to keep them alive.
I walk alone yet their shadow never
leaves my sight they call my name from
far I call them back I write to reach out
for them to read through my lines how
much I need to be cared for even one day
maybe half a day maybe a few hours even
one second is more then enough to pump
my heart to go on.
So sorry my fellow poets tonight when
you read through my lines you will forgive
me as I am sentimentally in pain affectionately
in pain tonight my pen was agonizing missing
my children missing to see them how do I survive
daily without them I don't know I know I have
been doing that for the past 35 years seeing
them on and off due to the war in our country
& unexplainable circumstances.
Tonight forgive me. I have no more tears.
Therese Bacha
Deep Dark Poem for contest of PD (Win.No 4 ) 22/2/2013
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Prose
Poem
Lucila
So I walked into my local supermarket
to buy my weekly shipment of Kit Kat bars,
Cinnamon Toast Crunch,
and Ovaltine powder mix.
As I shake off the snow on my fake Timberland boots,
my skin,
coated in frozen animation,
thaws into warmth’s teardrops from
the supermarket’s 75 degree vents.
This moist sense of happiness was quickly interrupted
when I heard Wilson Phillips, “Hold On”
over the PA system.
Thankfully, the cutlery isle was just to my left.
So, now, I had plans!
But, before I could commit felony’s song,
I saw her.
A Portuguese goddess
with a strut that can ruin a man’s dignity.
She had Autobahn curves,
dark brown curls of hair & visuals,
and thick flesh meat that even Vegans would envy.
Her face lacked Maybelline coated misapprehension.
Thank God!
Cause I never did like clowns.
After staring longingly at her,
like a crack head with impulsive eyes upon a broken/unlabeled bag of baby powder,
she breezed past my stifled posture and clocked in to work.
She didn’t even get a chance to smell my $500 cologne called “Piece of Me”.
So with new-found urges to grab all my groceries,
like a burglar who really has to pee,
I rush to express checkout.
There she is.
Her register beeps in coupon lady’s rhapsody,
while my register needs a cleanup on Isle 9.
Now it’s my turn.
With girlish inner-screams of boy-band intensity,
I say, “Hi”.
She scans my apples, while I scan her melons.
The melons that the customer ahead of me didn’t want…
…they were on sale.
Go fig.
As if she read my mind,
she asks,
“Are you feeling warm now?”
“All I want is to be the heat in your moment”,
which I almost said.
But, “Now I am”, is uttered.
As she smiled with seductive demure,
she handed me my receipt
with her phone number on back.
As I left the market,
I began to get cold again.
These winds of change
became gusts of numbness.
I locked myself out of my heart.
I turned around to go back inside.
Only to discover,
she didn’t have the key.
© Drake J. Eszes
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Prose
Poem
Just Three Pounds
Three pounds a month they
ask, save the Tiger, save the
Panda, save the Jaguar, save
the rain forest.
Three pounds a month for
the children's hospital and
for the save the children's
fund, the RSPCA, RSPB,
Cancer research, just, only
three pounds a month, now
my pockets are empty with
all these donations.
Our governments, they also
donate, mainly to the
FAT CAT SOCIETY
yes those poor sods who
caused the majority of man's
suffering with their greed and
avarice.
Please just three pound a
month for the Daniel
Cheesemans poetry fund.
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Prose
Poem
I pray for the non-believers of truth who instead uphold the lies of religion
I am. I am not. I am.
I am non-religious, yet I am a spiritual being.
I think of heaven and hell in proverbial, metaphorical ways,
but beyond the metaphors and similes,
how can I believe in a blissful heavenly existence
if there is to be eternal suffering for some.
I will not condone such suffering,
nor do I believe in the possibility of an eternal state of suffering,
therefore a wicked, righteous, hateful heaven does not exist for me.
I believe that all energy is equal; there is not a hierarchy of energy.
When energy is released from a mortal coil which can feel pain, suffering and bliss
via nerve-endings coursing with electrical currents,
the energy does not feel pain and suffering, does not feel bliss;
does not feel emotions in a way that our finite minds can properly conceptualize.
A God which has transcended ego
does not seek worship to validate its existence,
nor does such a God impose fear as part of a test
where the outcome of the grading could lead to eternal suffering:
to use fear like a predator freezes its prey
in the headlights of schizophrenic delusions.
Energy is eternal, therefore a part of you is already eternal.
Eternity is far beyond the constructs of a static, unchanging state.
There is no eternal destination,
because eternity does not have a destination at all --
there is always only the eternal journey within a constant of change
far greater than "good" and "evil"; of "heaven" and "hell".
Fairy tales are a wonderful tool to use to plant morals
within the fertile soil of the imagination.
In every person's life, there should come a time when it is understood
how the lead-role-devil in a fairy tale can be as benevolent as the "good" guy.
And vice versa.
Cast aside your fears,
cast aside the fairy tale fears designed by mankind.
Blind faith in a fairy tale is a coping mechanism of denial.
In such a state, one denies coming face-to-face with the ultimate fear
of mortal death and the unknown.
One must purely face fear to shed the tyranny of fear.
I do not judge the non-believers of absolute truth,
who instead hold onto religious lies that are merely painkillers masking the sickness.
Instead I pray for the ignorant non-believing upholders of petty religion,
for they are victims of plastic prophets seeking the plastic profits
of false control and power.
I pray that one day, we as a species, break-free from the shackles of religion,
so that we can collectively stop denying ourselves the face of God deep within
and without.
Until humanity releases itself from religion's stranglehold,
we will continue to choke ourselves, each other, and all surrounding life,
impeding the growth of our true spiritual potential.
I do enjoy fairy tales; enjoy the metaphors held within fairy tales.
For what is a fairy tale without metaphors?
04.12.2013
*Depending on certain definitions, secularism isn't the key either, unless
a benevolent humanist moral code replaces the separation of Church and State.
Just as with religions, there isn't a consensus on the definition of secularism,
because secularism is a mutable, constantly changing concept.
One of the main core objectives of secularism is to further separate the Church
and State, because the merging of religion and politics is detrimental to the
well-being of all life on the planet, especially when a biased religious slant is
used by a political tyrant to justify war and foreign diplomacy under the guise of:
"I am doing the will of God." -- also, when biased, wrongly interpreted religious
slants are injected into Capitalism, the "We have a God-given dominion over all
the plants and animals, which is why it is perfectly fine that I am cutting down the
entire forest," also obviously has disastrous results for life on the planet.
When enough people believe in a dogma-induced armageddon, it can be
projected into reality as a self-prophecy. If people believe that speeding-up this "armaggedon", is actually part of their salvation, then the proverbial shite truly
can hit the fan. Not all of us want to see the destruction of humanity and the
planet, especially if we view every particle as being sacred.
I felt like posting this prose even though it probably won't receive many comments,
especially since a large majority of this poetry site's members are heavily influenced
by religion. Any input is welcome, whether positive or negative. Discussions and/or rants from the over-zealous religious right, are also most welcome.
+/-
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Prose
Poem
Blue Tears On Parchment
Light blue tears on parchment, how softly my pen
weeps for you. Ribbons of verse bind, pull tightly
on oozing emotions. Devoted words lie embalmed
in true affection, line upon line of adoration. I am
besotted in ink, controlled by a heart that fills my
page. My pen lies aside my love, my dreams, my
day and night and what you are to me. Your kisses
are the words planted and my future granted.
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