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Best Prose Poems

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Don't stop! The most popular and best Prose poems are below this new poems list.

The un-accused guilty by edolo, yinlaifa
In A Perfect World by johnson, curtis
Mountains And Roads by Krieger, CJ
clap by bajantri, jagdish
Why Love Still Matters by Seeker, The
GOLDEN RINGS by OTEKI, ELCANA
I am an American by Siegel, Steven
Dawkins' Bicameral Blind by Dillenbeck, Gerald
Healthy Living, Wealthy Loving by Dillenbeck, Gerald
HUMAN NATURE by Promise, Rainbow

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The Best Prose Poems

Details | Prose Poem | |

I Think Of You - An Alternative Universe - 6


From childhood it was a world of two...you and I...
I leaned lightly, leisurely against your heart and you let me in.

We were five I use to draw you rose scented flowers
using an ordinary led pencil. Youth! The world was ours.

Seven!  I know that was the first time I saw you blush.
I whispered a song for you so no one else would hear.

Oh when we were nine! The potato sack race.  I entered with Lisa.
 You gave me that look. Oh that look!  And you  left without a word.

At eleven years old I had my "magic wink". "A Magic Wink" you'd
say sarcastically.  How it made you giggle to make fun of it.

It was at thirteen we decided to burn the gym floor with our moves.
Our first dance.  You stole my breath. Emptied the room of oxygen.

Fifteen...we started running and my God we ran and ran...
our shoe prints dug into the concrete. It was then I knew. Forever.

Then suddenly at seventeen in the slip of time you left, dissapeared.
Stunned! I slept through the next two years even in the full light of day.

At nineteen I swam an endless pool but even the chlorine couldn't
clear your scent from my memory as my spirit filled out hard as steel.

Was it on my twenty first birthday you showed up? You showed up
 tried to hug me hello. Silent! Cold! I turned and walked away.

Was I still twenty one when I apologized for that day. When you asked 
for an explanation. I recited false words but we both knew. Hurt for hurt.

Then at twenty five we still had issues to work out. I asked you bluntly 
why you cut me loose in the prime of our youth. You my first and only.

I asked the question that burned in my gut. Without words your eyes spoke. 
You were still in love with me. There was only me. I your first and only.

Finally our lips met to never part again. Left to wonder why, I accept our 
lives without an answer. My love was that. Why would I have let you go?

Older than old now. One last time you leave. Death makes this choice. 
Alone again I remember how I never knew why once you left.

Not everything  is explained or understood,
like music by a one arm man playing a violin.

I sport my blank stare. Naked is the body of life.
Mystery sings blind the song of the lark!

and I...

i think of you.



March 29 2015
Armand




Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2015

More great poems below...


Details | 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

Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2011


Details | Prose Poem | |

Best Man

It has been 9 months since your sudden disappearance.

That Hallowed night when your 5’11” nerd aura
Handed me my early birthday gift
A cold shoulder wrapped in a velvet bow
Made in Sri Lanka, sold exclusively at the Dollar Store

That was your appraised value.

But, today, revival’s whisper enters my gently waxed earlobes.

Candy coated revelations
For my allergic blood

“I said yes!”, as she flashed Cracker Jack ring
Filled with Monopoly dollar signs and “Go directly to Jail” Chance cards

I almost applauded, my hands sarcastically never connected
While my eyeballs rolled in epileptic banter

We scream in misguided nerd joy 
As if we witnessed Monty Python & Darth Vader having a make-out session

Sudden urges to watch movies about Traveling Pants & Sisterhood
And PSing my I Love You
While we eat Dark Chocolate Klondike bars and Chipwich Ice Cream Cookies
My ovaries were bursting with INSANITY’S JOY!

But, WAIT, I quickly realized I didn’t have such parts!

It was then, reality crashed
As if Spider Man ran out of web during mid-air leap

My essence now halts at crossroads’ throat.

To my left, “celebration”
To my right, “other”

I chose to be a human this night.

Current time- 9:15pm
Current location- Reception Hall

A 5 course meal,
Including dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets
Smiley face French fries
And 3 glasses of Tang
Surrounded my space on the dinner table

Heavenly echoes of forks & glass,
Ringing in ignorant unison,
Give birth to Tinnitus in my drums

In their 9 months of togetherness,
They kiss with forcible ease,
Frogs refusing to show their true form

It is then, ignoring listless stares from guests,
I stood up holding my half-empty Tang glass
Which MIGHT have contained a smidge of Grey Goose

At the TOP of my LUNGS,
I whispered.

“Friend, I should be so proud of you. I would. I could. You never responded to my open-hearted palm. You left my vulnerabilities dangling at half-mast, as if I lost our final game of Hang Man. But, TONIGHT, it is I & this delicious Dinosaur nugget that will HAVE a final say! You are impeccably flawed, like I. But, I still wanted you to be a part of my tomorrows. Yet, you turned me into a muted yesterday. So, I will wish congratulations on your new slav…um, husband, Pouring this glass of yummy Tang onto this stapled dance floor in a straight line Each drop will be a symbol of how many tears he will shed, before that line is crossed.”
As silence slapped each other in its face Across candle flame blanketed, marble dance hall, With children pointing & laughing hysterically, “Security” enters the room As I hold hands with Cuban female rent-a-cop, her head warming my shoulder, “Thank you for these 9 months. For now, I have given birth to a new me. The Best Man that you will never hold again.” ©Drake J. Eszes

Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2013


Details | Prose Poem | |

Simple Words For Simple People

If I had a pretentious brain which acts faster than my heart Maybe then,I would abhore this soul which spreads freely through each verse Maybe then I would impress you with my intellectual grammar and sophisticated words I would scrutunize each and every coma dot and exclamationmark believing I know best But I would never let that happen I'd rather stay at bay Writing firstly with my mind and not my heart leads only to an asylium within the being of myself Poetry is my voice,my shadow The sacred shrine of great escape Each stored emotion processed within a yesterday Poetry is the inner of my existence breathing softly,bleeding deeply exploding in death,love passion and romance In every verse a whisper a thought that I would scribe of a silent cry expressed Maybe in a tomorrow you might pass by me Tread your footstep on my ink and spit saliva in my face But maybe in a today a broken -hearted fool stops by to find comfort in my world Maybe a prisoner,a tramp an insane soul or outcast would pick these scattered scribbles and gather them as whole Maybe through each criss-crossed puzzle finds a narrow passage which leads his faith to home Maybe a little child whose blissful giggles depends on little words would turn the dusty pages of silly rhymes I penned Rhymes which know the moons stars,faries,and the magic land Rhymes which know each fantasy and how to be a friend And maybe He would smile Maybe He would laugh Maybe He would dream Maybe He would grow up to write the most eloquent sonnet there has ever been Or maybe He would grow up to write simple words just like me about daises or dandelions and expressions to be free

Copyright © Charmaine Chircop | Year Posted 2014


Details | 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

Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner | Year Posted 2013


Details | 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".

Copyright © John Streeter | Year Posted 2009


Details | 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.

Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2013


Details | 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

Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2013


Details | 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

Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2010


Details | Prose Poem | |

A Getaway To Ancient Venice

I can still recall the look upon His face Each thought still makes me go to that enchanting place The vernal air was floral sweet and honey breezed We roamed along Venice's zigzagged lanes and cobbled streets On our secret rendezvous,We hugged affectionately under pastel gothic galleries Greeted by the aromatic smell of freshly brewed roast coffee beans Strolling along the pigeon-filled piazza San Marco We wandered hand in hand,in the serenissima ancient floating land Street musicians played their flutes.as We sat on a roof-top wooden terrace We glanced at merchants sell hand-blown murano glass by the picturesque Doge's palace We ate a snack , then walked away towards the old opera house which now has risen from its ashes. We sauntered forward through little alleys from where He bought me ,a gold painted venetian mask To my surprise ,He had another gift,a wrapped up scarlet sheer laced basque I peered at him through my dark lashes,He raised his left brow and flashed a smile Expressed his charm in playful ways,in a flirtatious endearing style. Boarded at last on a black gondola,cruised the lagoon and the canals A few light kisses,a few soft brushes,waiting the bell's toll whilst in his arms There we lay in waiting beneath the bridge of sighs We sealed our kiss and promised lips,to the harmonic sound of chimes He leaned on me,I welcomed Him,our spirits been entwined Above,the sky has changed its colour,I watched the sun set in his eyes All I am,I gave to him,my enduring heart- His sacred shrine All that He is He gave to me in once upon a time
Not for the contest,but thanks for the 'Lovemaking in an ancient place contest,inspiration'. This post is inspired by Ancient Venice and the tale of 'The Bridge Of Sighs' The tale goes-If you kiss your loved one with the bell's toll of St,Mark's Basilica, at sunset,beneath the bridge of sighs,the couple seals their love forever. There is another tale to it,a sad one,but preferred to share the happy one : )

Copyright © Charmaine Chircop | Year Posted 2014


Details | Prose Poem | |

Uplifting

I flew over Bryce Canyon my wings fully spread in a gentle glide as I marveled at the view below. It wasn't the first time but it always felt like it. I flapped my wings to ascend even further and consume even more of the landscape. The weather chiseled rock that always reminded me of sandcastles children sculpted at the seashore. I loved the fragrance of the pine trees that neatly grew amongst the rocks and the white and golden blend of colors that jutted here and there against an ever changing sky. I suppose if they could see me - humans would gasp at the sight of an Angel and me well I still gasp at all that God created for the pleasure of mankind.
22~12~2014 With Love Maurice Yvonne

Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2014


Details | Prose Poem | |

LIFE

I asked to my father
Baba, What is life ?
He politely said to me, " Life is Duty . "

I asked to my mother
Maa, What is life ?
She said to me with smile, " Life is Responsibility . "

I asked to my teacher
Sir, What is life ?
He said to me with love, " Life is Education . "

I asked to my spiritual master
Gurujee, What is life ?
He said to me with confidence, " Life is Devotion . "

Today my son who reads in class nine
Asked me
Babai, What is life ?
I have said to him, " Dear, You are my life . "

SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA


( Father means BABA, BABAI and Mother means MAA in Bengali language .  Gurujjee means spiritual master in Indian society ) 

Copyright © Sandip Goswami | Year Posted 2014


Details | 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.

Copyright © Daniel Cheeseman | Year Posted 2010


Details | Prose Poem | |

In Shades of Black and White






In so many shades of black and white, I find you after all these years;
leaning against that old weathered clapboard schoolhouse,
high on the hill overlooking the Fundy Bay, 
and again, I inhale the fragrance of those wild sea salt roses
and feel the ocean mist upon my face, as I look out at those 
sunbeams dancing on the tops of those rolling waves.

There you are, in your hand-me-down dress,
with socks pooling around the tops of your shoes.
There, third row to the far left, sporting a home made bowl haircut,
and a smile of utter joy. 

After all years, in so many shades of black and white,
 I find that little lost girl, and I am a kid again.

In so many shades of black white, I find the true colors that are me. 

Author:  Elaine C. George, of Canada
Written:  March 26, 2015

Authors Note:
I wanted to enter this in the contest, but it was too late.

The inspiration behind this prose, comes from a snapshot 
taken 61 years ago, which somehow made its way back to me via 
a relative and the modern miracle of facebook.

Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2015


Details | Prose Poem | |

The Instincts of Innocence

I reflect upon a word -
   Innocence
To understand more fully what it means,
I think of what it conjures up for me -
childhood times -
 those times when I believed all I was taught
from silly things like Santa Clause
 to sacred things
            like God and true religion.

The way I accepted and then reacted to 
my mother’s definitions  of what was wrong and right
  I think is how I might define 
           my instincts ….. of innocence.
Having learned well right from wrong in my youth,
            my instinct was to feel shock or dismay
when I saw others doing      things I deemed immoral,
especially when the doers were those that I looked up to
           inside the parameters of my own church.
However, my tolerance for others’ evil doing 
  increased year by year, 
            Even in my youth, I never judged them outright.
Those girls and boys that slept around through high school
              were judged inside the silence of my mind.
       I never shunned them.

A few more decades passed. 
      Religion’s walls around me were wearing down.
  I never did cement the cracks in my walls’ foundation
      as did some others in my community -
               others who sought to strengthen their own walls
    with instincts of innocence espoused inside
                        the sanctity of chapels.
When was it I let my childhood instincts  totally crumble?

Generally more tolerant than many of my friends
  that I grew up with, I saw “other” people
with eyes that rarely blinked  at what I deemed to be audacity.
Those with different customs, or with strange new religions
          I have accepted in my life and tried hard not to judge.
Some things, however, I cannot tolerate.
             Societies that put their women down and 
people who abuse the weak, emotionally as well as physically,
Never will those actions I accept.

Now I ponder this: Are the instincts of innocence simply tied
          to what we learn as children?
I have seen select groups of people shunned
            by both the religious and the non-religious
simply for the fact that they are different!
And from whence comes the idea in a child’s mind 
to make him think that someone should be shunned?
Do our instincts of innocence simply come
from that time of life
when we looked up to our parents as our Gods,
accepting their every teaching as Gospel
and feeling fear to ever go against them?
Many things we learn are for our good, and
societies would turn to chaos without some guidelines
akin to the ten commandments.

On the other hand,
as a child, I was innocent.
    My instinct was to trust in strangers.
              Then I learned better.
My instinct was to cringe but say nothing   
   the time I was inappropriately touched.
Thankfully, since then, I have learned better.
In some instances, I would say, 
our instincts of innocence
                                                should be laid to rest!

For a long while now, I’ve been seeing
a small but significant segment of the population
that differs in their sexual orientation or preference.
Those who taught me in my youth
 that I ought to be as meek as a child
         still point today to ancient Scriptures
                  as the way for all to keep their innocence.

But my walls have fallen down.
    I stand here in the rubble
              unsure that I've done right or wrong
         in letting many of my childhood  ways of thinking
                   collapse so utterly.
The instincts of my thinking adult mind tell me that
     I am not wrong to stand with those who want their right
                to the pursuit of their own happiness
despite the fact their actions are denounced
         by the very teachings on which I was raised.

Can we ever really lose completely 
those thoughts developed from our early teachings, 
which led to the instincts of our childhood innocence?
At times, I cannot be completely at ease
in what I have let go of and in who I have become,
for the instincts of innocence 
     still dwell           in the caverns of my mind.

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015


Details | Prose Poem | |

If Not

If not passion then desire, that fills 
this heart with fire. At last this heart
has found that hallowed ground at
your side, that place of dreams. 
Where the deepness of my love is
borne on wings of angels, where
the words of  love tumble, fall as
blossom at your feet. Sincerity
lingers like a fragrance, warm and
inviting, soft as that first kiss. That
first kiss built on the foundations 
of forever, of beating hearts in
perfect time. There is passion, there
is desire, but it is the true essence
of love that kindles the emotions
within this heart. Swaying to and fro
like poppies in an open field, this
open field a vastness of the purest 
love. Horizons to be reached, wishes
and dreams to be achieved. With
this in mind I forget time and dream
of you in eternity.

Copyright © Daniel Cheeseman | Year Posted 2010


Details | 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.

Copyright © Daniel Cheeseman | Year Posted 2010


Details | Prose Poem | |

Love Letters Collab By Mary And Vladislav

 Love Letters during World War 2.
Janet Camden-
My darlin' how I have missed your loving embrace.Feeling the warmth, the strength as you hold me close.Your eyes that gaze into mine,without ever hearing you speak...I know without a doubt that you love me.How I crave to taste your sweet lips my love.Oh,how long before you may return to my aching arms.I want to walk arm and arm with my head on your shoulder as we watch a beautiful sunset on the warm summers eve,to hear your laughter,to dance with you 'neath the soft glow of a lovers moon as we gaze into the heavens at the diamonds sparkling high in the evening sky.Do you realize that you my precious darlin' are my every thought,my every breath that I take,my morning sun and evening moon and stars,you are all that I am,my very reason I exist.I pray each day to God above to return you safely to my waiting arms .Hurry my love,hurry home to my waiting arms. 
                                                                   ~ Forever and always my love.~
John Camden-
My beloved, how i miss holding you close. How my heart yearns for to feel your body close, your warmth and Love slowly entering me. To feel your most precious heart beating against me. I so miss our nights when we would walk through the fields of emerald green and gold. What i would give this night but too hold your hand and walk with you through the fields. We would walk to our tree and there we would make our memories. I taste your lips each night as i know you send me a kiss on our favorite star. The stars shine so beautiful tonight my Love, i can but close my eyes and i know you are there. I know you walk these stars each night watching over me. You come into my every dream and i live inside. The moon now shines my Love, i feel your blessed hand in mine. I shall feel your precious lips upon mine. I am lost here without you, My heart does ache to be with you and walk the tracks our Love has followed. Tonight i see your beloved face in every star. Come my Love, let me kiss you to sleep. We shall kiss and i shall give you my essence and whatever happens in our life, i shall always be with you. I do miss the simpler days.  My Love, i pray God that he shall bring me home to you. We shall walk the days and nights together my Love. I shall be back with you soon i hope. God can not take me away from my destiny. You have always been my destiny my Love

                                                    Love always

Copyright © Mary Hoose | Year Posted 2016


Details | Prose Poem | |

A SLave's Cry

Stranded in this place
I cannot recognize
Abandoned and lonely
No one hears my cries
AS i walk through this wasteland
Of wilderness and desolation
I am consumed with anguish
I walk this road with hesitation
On every turn that i come upon
The is more pain than at the last turn
Agony and torment spews from my pores
With every step i take more pain i earn
Until i am enveloped with grief
Buried alive on my feet
Dirt in my eyes,nose,mouth,and lungs
I throw up my flag of defeat
Each painful blow leaves behind a deep gash
That is constantly reopened never able to heal
Infection has now set into my heart
Slashes and scars on my body reveals the detail
Of the despair embedded deep in my soul
That tells a tale of a soul so lost
A soul wandering through this wilderness
A tale of what being born black cost

Copyright © April Mitchell | Year Posted 2013


Details | Prose Poem | |

Language Barrier

I couldn’t understand the language she spoke,

at least not all of it,

but the emotion pouring past her lips, 

the tears in her eyes, her clenched and shaking fists

enunciated more clearly,

than any piece of English Poetry I had ever read,

and grabbed me, held me still.

                   …In that moment, her soul was in my arms.

In that finite, tender breath of our lives,

she was my mother, my best friend…

but I could not console her. 

I didn’t have the words;

and my heart sank into the 

concrete between us,

wet with the pain of God’s rain

and her tears. 

                  …Were my tears

So, I simply opened my palms

toward her crouched form and 

spoke the only words I could 

fathom, that would be accepted

by a stranger on a dangerous street. 

"I am sorry, It will be okay. God will bless you."

I knew she did not understand…

"Lo siento" 

                  “que va a estar bien”    

                            “Dios te bendecira’ “ 

the words were as messy as the overturned

duffle bag at her feet…and fumbled, slowly

from my lips, as my knees hit the street.

Two strangers, cried in the rain,

knowing nothing of each other’s suffering,

and yet we shared the weight,

together, for those few moments;

the barrier of language was broken.

Love spoke for us.  

-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.

…Love transcends any language

               

Copyright © James Kelley | Year Posted 2014


Details | Prose Poem | |

When the Time is Right

For nearly 45 years I never spoke of  that day; the emotional pain was too great.
I simply hid it in the lining of my soul, knowing in my heart you didn’t stand
a chance with me as I stood in the rubble of my life and let you go, wrapped
in my heart with a wish and a prayer- all I had to give. And for 45 years, 
I dreamed of you and me playing in fields of daisies under blue skies as
I cried inside, wondering where you where, and if there was a part of you  
that somehow would remember me- would remember the bond we made 
in that single moment we shared together, when the nurse held you up to the
nursery window for me to see as I  stood on wobbly legs, with my trembling 
hands holding unto a pole with a dripping IV?

I prayed. Lord! How I prayed that someday, by the grace of  God, 
you’d come back to me when the time was right. 

So I lived my life. Got back up and crawled out of the rubble that was me, 
and lived with half a heart that somehow still managed to beat.

With the passing of  time, I bloomed; sometimes red, sometimes blue when I thought of all the years we could have shared as I sat and listened to family and friends 
tell me of the joyful times they shared with their children, grandchildren 
and great-grandchildren as, I  smiled and  cried inside and dreamed of you, 
and all the years of your life I  missed and, all the years I would never know. 
It was then I realized I was a very lonely soul. So, I wrote and wrote and
wrote, never suspecting for a moment that  nearly 45 years later,
you would find me through a poem I wrote for you.

I know I can never replace the mother and father who raised you, for the bonds
of time shared  are  much stronger than blood. Yet knowing what a wonderful 
women you turned out to be, beautiful, intelligent, compassionate  
and now with a daughter  of your own, is enough for me, and someday  
when the time is right for you, I hope and pray , we will meet again.

                                               ~~~~~~

                                                 Elaine George 


This is a true story.  It was through this forum ( poetrysoup ) my birth daughter found me. 


Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2011


Details | Prose Poem | |

Reflecting on Police Brutality

It was the spring of ‘74 when my student peers and I
were on the tail end of a group excursion  
through southern Spain, across Gibraltar’s Strait
and into the exotic northern tip of Africa.
I remember lots of greenery and mountains
and the fascinating sights and sounds inside Tangier,
but one small thing that happened somewhere between
the time we viewed the landscape we traversed 
and our time inside our destination city
stands out in my mind forevermore.

Our bus had briefly stopped on the street of a town.
I was looking out the window when I glimpsed a child,
looking poor and ragged, not so old.
He ran down the block with an orange in his hand,
an older man behind him in pursuit.
Quickly I observed that the man 
was a type of law enforcement officer,
 for he wielded a long strong stick
which he proceeded to use on the unfortunate lad
once he had caught up to him.

The event was very near our bus, 
so I could watch with growing horror
as this country’s version of a cop
unleashed brutality on a fellow human being,
a boy who was no doubt simply starved for food.
I saw the heavy stick fall repeatedly
till it struck the boy’s ear and blood gushed out. . . 

I would later view ornate gold buildings in Tangier,
 see colorful hand-crafted clothes and rugs, and smell
the aromas of strange delightful foods,
but beneath all that wonder was the singular event
that stayed inside my brain.

I think of my own country - free, so very free,
with laws against “this kind of thing” that had appalled me;
a land so free that gangs of filthy evil men, 
even sometimes with the help of the police,
had in days of yore lynched the black man
for crimes as meager as the taking of that orange,
or worse, for no crime at all!
Hateful mobs had beat and hanged
men and women, even children,
In the midst of the beauty of 
fragrant magnolia trees . . .

Civil Rights has done a lot 
to eradicate these horrors, yet even now,
a remnant of the Ku Klux Klan mentality
exists inside the minds of some, and even in
 the minds of some we trust to uphold the law.
I cannot know the thoughts that enter
the minds of law enforcers who think they are confronting
a person who they’ve deemed a criminal. 
I cannot know their fear when they see, perhaps,
what they suppose to be a weapon.
We cannot know their backgrounds 
or if they harbor prejudice against another color
or against the lower class.
The court and the jury decide the fate of those
who have used what our society may see as undue force.
God alone will judge them in the end.

We, as citizens of all the world, must be aware
that violence can be used
when the threat of it against themselves
is perceived by our police.
How sad to think that some of those 
who serve to offer us protection ,
whether out of ignorance, fear, or prejudice,
are using brutality so haphazardly. 

Those in my own country who have seen 
or even experienced police brutality
must have felt the same horror I felt the day I saw
a child beaten in a foreign land.
Who am I to judge another country
when mine is also mired still in sin?
God help us all to fight against 
the inane and unjust cruelty of those
who practice police brutality.

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2014


Details | Prose Poem | |

This Poem Is Who I Am With Everybody

       This Poem Is Who I Am With Everybody.

I was told who I am, always reflects upon my friends 
and family. When I choose a friend we become one 
soul forever.This Is how I interpret my friendship.

When I choose a friend, I would shelter their names 
in my heart,after conquering their friendship.
Their secrets will register in my brain to never be exposed. 

I was told who I am always reflects upon their lives, they know
my spirit and soul will not survive without them, my consistency 
will nurture their strength to exude.
When I choose a friend, my love will never sleep or vanish,
my telepathy will wake up and sleep when they retire.

My sharing becomes an unconditional awareness of either their 
pain or happiness. They feel that I am capable of praying for 
them each night.
If they are near or far makes no difference out of love their 
shadow will send me messages in what state of mind they 
are at the moment.
 
My heart will surrender when I am needed, if they want to talk,
I will listen, if they cry I will wipe their tears, if they are hungry 
for food I will feed them, if they hunger for philosophy, I would 
share my knowledge, if they crave for silence my voice is muted,
if they are weak in health nothing will hold me back from running 
to stay next to them day and night till healing will prevail.

When I choose a friend, I was told who I am always reflects upon
their everyday living, because knowing all what I possess will be 
shared without asking, generosity progresses out of love.
Their silhouette constantly moves next to me, feeling their heart 
beat continuously to determine how to approach them.

That is why who I am always reflects upon their everyday,
knowing I analyze the word friendship as the dearest to my soul,
I have no boundaries, my tears will flow like raindrops reaching their 
window if any help is needed.
I love all my friends.


21/5/2013 Contest For SKAT. This Is Who I Am with everybody. WIN (10)

Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2013


Details | Prose Poem | |

YOU ARE THE ONE


l. Opening the closet of narra doors, I sweep through organza skirts and gemmed ringlets; my hair ruffling aimlessly upon scalloped kerchiefs smelling decade - old hyacinth, Mom’s favorite ambrosia: she would lift her anklets in tiptoed hums, ”night and day, you are the one..” Evenings touched her candle hands; hands that soothed wounded knees from jackstone fights; her fingers caressing a pony -tailed girl’s wrath with piano keys rippling into a gentle moan; “night and day you are the one…” And i am delivered from my tempestuous rants. ll. From nowhere, the porcelain mirror gazed at me; her rhythm of silence billows, cradling my nights with each veil of her almond eyes that enter into my irises: a serene sight too close, much too tight I clung to her unspoken word. Through years, I grew like a bamboo shoot: her quiet smiles and music walked me through reality’s maze. And how I would wail bearing the grim of hard study, coughing late, late hours of reading toil…yet, she stayed like a moth with charm flushed in a wind of calm gaze, ebbing . lll. And only Mom could melt my temper when my raging soul paused to wonder at her light’s glow: oh, her feminine beat illumined more lamplights dancing inside this rebellious head… and now, she hovers around me. I become her eyes, chanting, “night and day, you are the one” ; never balking at my surreal conquests. She is gone bequeathing warmth into my torched flights without question; with much love dripping from her graceful movement, straying all through these my breaths: “night and day, you are the one…” Judy Konos' Contest Tell Us About Your Mom

Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2014


Details | Prose Poem | |

Message from My Daughter

So… during basketball season… our manager, Anna,
             would sit by me on the bench.

After Christmas, 
I told her about Nana drawing with charcoals. 
I told her about how I wanted to buy her charcoals 
             so she would draw again. 
I told Anna about how Nana won’t draw anymore 
             because she used to draw…
                          when Papa was sick. 

             (I was telling Anna all of this because she likes to draw
             and mentioned she likes charcoals the best)……..
 	           All that being said…

Anna gave me the most beautiful charcoal drawing 
            of a basketball on a wooden floor.
It is framed and really big. 
You can tell that she put time into it 
            and really wanted it to be pretty. 
When I opened it in class today, 
            I was so surprised…… 
                           and told her it was beautiful. 

She smiled at me and said, 

            “I drew that because of the story you told 
             me about your grandma.”

I bawled like a little kid. 

Just that the story would influence her, and 
              inspire her to draw that for me. 

It is awesome.

I had forgotten that we even talked about drawing……. 
             She didn’t. 
                            That story meant something to her.

 And that is why people teach.

Copyright © Ray Dillard | Year Posted 2010