Best Prose Poems
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
Our lives are not immune to the impact of time,
nor is our mind between the tensions of love and hate.
That's why I curse this wanderlust heart -
still searching for that wandering star.
without a guide - without a love to call my own.
I try not to look back, but sometimes certain scents,
remind me of things that saw me as a minority.
A summer heart misplaced in winter's wickedness,
a child frozen in the passages of a stolen childhood.
Ingredients of my life are a juxtaposition of flavours,
finding purity among diseased hearts,
fighting against principles of corrupt minds
and I hurt nobody - until they pushed me,
it was never about the physical - but the mental.
Silence is different in adolescence -
suppressed into a protective bubble,
you reject the harshness of existence.
My small hands could not hold the burdens,
so I was mute as demons slayed my father,
his anger drowning my brothers into darkness.
Tears of my mother, dehydrated my soul,
so I grew like a tree with broken branches -
sometimes naked, sometimes an abundance of green.
Even in an obscure world of nightmares,
my heart was a light bulb, full of dreams -
but misplaced in a place of misunderstanding.
I adopted silence in the violence,
because I struggled with reality's fabrications.
Fatherless,
I found acceptance in the war on the streets,
where love was poison, but hate brought prosperity.
Only surviving due to my father's name,
yet I knew it was an unwinnable game.
My hands were pacifying guns,
so I learned to exist without bullets.
I was a black sheep in a strange white herd,
opposing shepherds who couldn't tolerate me.
A clean soul in a dirty social order -
a peaceful heart seeking a place to call home.
Silence is a choice in adulthood.
I used to ignore the pain from unhealed wounds,
but today the inner child screams and shouts,
because oppressors can no longer mute my tongue.
Death taught me not to be bitter,
stubborn fingers how to bleed ink onto paper -
showing compassion in an ugly world.
If life was so simple, we wouldn't look at it differently.
Our perceptions are based on what we have learned,
what was, what is to come and what we search for.
Where you end up depends on how you deal with the past.
Voice: Jason Williams
***
I danced!
Whirling air around me, particles of sundust
in tornadoes and hurricanes following me in awe
I danced.
Each night I wake and feel my legs
The ones that once carried me and jumped so high
The ones that took me away from a world I didn't want to be in
Creating a dream,
I danced.
The music colouring a world with brushes and pencils
With moves and muscle, practice and pirouette
A world I thought no one could take away
I danced.
When my eyes are closed I dance
My mind paints my body whole and healed
A unicorn, a world of faeries, a galloping horse
A world of dreams, veiled and away from hurt
I live again
I live
I don't dance anymore
But I write. My words, my lines, they carry me now
My legs are useless, my arms and emotions
Carry me
So....
I dance again, in words
I dance.
***
1st Place in contest: Practiced Passion
Sponsor: Frank Herrera
November 9, 2016
As I sit watching fusions of saffron and scarlet hues
elegantly charm the horizons.
Silently, fluffy lush clouds float by
like a magnetic field drawing me closer,
in hope they may lead me to you.
So I ponder
maybe love is like the sunrise
so many see it - yet so few feel it.
Just the thought of my beloved,
leads to these poetic fingers bleeding.
As they drown in an abundance of words,
that can only be soothed by her luscious lips.
For these sentimental eyes yearn
to caress her tender skin.
So, I set upon the path to discover,
if it shall lead to the realms of my lover.
A path that I have once trodden upon before,
but the soul demands to travel upon it once more.
After all I'm only human,
the love she planted in my heart still remains
and how can I love another,
when the heart refuses to give permission.
Time has kept us apart.
I float to her like a butterfly,
and shall float until I reach her province.
For this not just an infatuated sensation,
you may hear in a fairy tale or sung in a lullaby.
Her love is the only sensation of infatuation,
as she holds the formula to my alchemist heart.
I know I can't simply take her heart,
it can only be given to one.
But without her the world is cold,
and I live for the day she will wrap me up
inside her heart and never let me leave.
For the love she gave, is still the only one I crave.
I long to walk together amongst bluebells and ambrosial roses,
roaming through an oasis of enchanted blossoms.
Her arms will become my sanctuary.
To create a masterpiece of serenity,
to achieve an eternal state of tranquillity.
I hope before first site of twilight,
her perfect vision brings justice to this write.
In a world full of expectations,
I may lose the passion to exist.
Just one beautiful gesture,
will help me to remember how to smile.
For, I know her radiant eyes will provide clarity,
the warmth of her kiss will be my remedy.
The Silent One
8 November 2017
Simple Musings.
Placid rain gently kisses unblemished windows
as leaves fall in an Autumn breeze.
In the distance cinereal clouds congregate,
converging upon the city's royal citadel.
Oblivious to the storm, adrift in cultural fiction
she sits immersed from the ambience
of the scent of new leaves.
Hypnotised - tranquil words enchant her mind,
as her eyes nonchalantly embrace each paragraph.
Her heart is at peace, relating to each character,
some that make her smile - others that displease her.
Jealous winds blow abundant rain,
like bullets shooting against her window.
Attempting to distract from her infatuation,
but her spirit is an unconquerable fortress.
The world is forgotten to her,
as her soul performs the role
of her favourite character.
Observing to learn through them,
so she can learn about her self.
The final page,
the last sentence,
leads to watery eyes.
For the peace and beauty
she experiences in books,
she does not find in life.
Simple Musings
Silent One
5 October 2017
I forgot myself today
as melancholic melodies
overwhelm each beat
of my wandering heart.
The sanctimonious sun deceives
as a bitter breeze breathes
against sullen silent surfaces.
Recycled emotions penetrate
with a repetition of deep sighs.
My spiritless soul strays, but is
happy to be lost in lyrical lament.
As the Nightingale chants its
continuous regretful resonance,
the tip of my tongue aches
to whisper your amorous name, but
holds back knowing you can't hear.
Without your enchanted vision,
neglected eyes perish.
Without your perfumed presence,
senses remain scentless.
Without your tender touch,
fragile petals won't blossom.
As a cascade of sandcastle emotions
infiltrate stubborn sierra barriers.
Violent tears erupt,
demolishing hardened walls.
What used to be bitter breaths and
spiteful sighs are now regretful cries.
Your silent goodbye still haunts
as the lips grieve for one last kiss.
I forgot myself today,
but have not forgotten your love.
The Silent One
Simple Musing
29 November 2017
(Fiction)
I loved you the first day
I saw those big brown eyes blinking,
taking in your first moments of life.
Not a tear nor a little scream,
you seemed sheltered in my arms.
That was the day I promised to keep you safe and warm.
I remember your attempts to call for me,
gradually turning into 'daddy, daddy, daddy.'
First crawling like a caterpillar, following my every step,
to walking and grabbing my legs.
There you would be waiting at the door,
always knew when daddy would come home from work.
Telling me you loved me and I was your hero,
as you ran around in your fairy princess dresses.
I promised to make all your dreams come true.
I remember the smiles, tears and laughter,
our special song we sang together -
although you didn't know the words, still you sang along -
now your voice is like a melodious nightingale.
Every time you would fall, always looked towards me,
I would come running and raise you to the sky.
Wiping your tears, spreading those imaginary wings,
but in my heart hoping you would never learn to fly.
When I fell, trials of your father, I kept inside,
hoping you would not see my pain nor the burdens.
Guess you will never know the sacrifices of your father.
How quick you grew, all tall and hair full of locks and curls.
Slowly daddy, turned into dad and being your taxi!
Now you say you are seventeen and you think you know it all,
but you do not realize, you'll always be a baby in my eyes.
If only you could see through your father's eyes.
Sometimes you do not understand why I say no,
and those mini tantrums never last too long.
I know in the future it will all make sense.
You dream about studying far, far away,
travelling this wild, crazy, mysterious world.
Yet, I know every road you venture upon,
one of them will lead you back home.
When days are sunny,
you smile sweetly, walking headstrong,
but when there is thunder and rain clouds follow -
those sweet brown eyes always turn to me -
always ending in 'thank you for being my daddy.'
Adding to the millions of 'I love you more.'
Little do you know that is impossible.
Silent One
5 October 2020
What has become of me?
Like a madman laughing in the rain,
wandering through fields of barley,
where ghosts whisper my name.
Hesitantly venturing forward,
reluctant to turn back,
loved ones desperately hold my hand.
Time is no longer a friend of mine.
I'm aware this path shall be my last,
but I'm smiling - satisfied,
knowing the pain will end.
Reminiscing seasons gone by,
memories are like rose petals,
softening each step -
my mind is at peace knowing
thorns can't cut me any more.
Images flash by
my first kiss, my last tear,
words spoken, words lost in silence,
and how the wind danced at sunset
illuminating golden crops.
Birds sing songs of goodbye,
tomorrow there will be no sunrise.
My heart will never again
harvest upon nature's rewards.
Scarecrows watch over barren fields,
suffocated by absent hands.
As each breath becomes shorter,
my soul prepares to depart.
But I'm lost in thought, wondering:
Will it be celestial lullabies,
or dancing with the devil?
Simple Musings
Silent One
2 January 2018
FOREVER ADELINE
Acknowledgement:
A big thank you Sam Scott from our Poetry Soup Community,
for your splendid narrative contribution.
Synopsis:
A story of unrequited love that began in childhood.
Despite the passage of time, his love remained hauntingly
painful even after she fell in love with another.
Aloft on wings of rhapsody, together spirits soar
Wild, untamed and sensuous, just like a lion's roar.
HOW LONG AGO IT SEEMS THE TWO OF YOU FIRST MET
AS TIME IS RENDERED MEANINGLESS
OR TIMELESS, BETTER YET
Though in that Timeless moment, along came winds of change
Love swiftly rearranged, but what it WAS, remained
Oh, Adeline, so fair and bright,
Eyes, like stars, shine with delight,
Oh fickle heart, now you await
your new love's sweet embrace
Blinded by the callous cad, you foolishly don't resist
In the quench of love's allure, Time does not exist
His loving lips will not reveal your new love's promiscuous charms
Intoxicated, unrepentantly, he sways to others' wanton arms.
Across the bronze Sienna shores and blissful sea breeze skies,
He ever trails your hungry heart through
his own saddened eyes.
Oh, Adeline in Twilight's Hush,
where shadows dance and play,
A tale of love and longing
When Night succumbs to Day
Oh, Adeline, will it be
mere friendship, he would fain?
To be just a deliverer of love notes,
a job he will disdain
Oh, Adeline ~ Sweet Adeline
At every glance - a secret shared,
his every word - love unsaid,
In every touch - a fire dared
HOW LONG AGO IT SEEMS ~ THE TWO OF YOU FIRST MET
AS TIME IS RENDERED MEANINGLESS
OR TIMELESS, BETTER YET
Chansons ne sont que chansons
Quand on écrit de l'amour
Comment d'écrire des chansons
De la femme qui est l'amour?
English translation from above:
Songs are just songs
When we write about love
How do you write songs
Of the woman who is Love?
OH, ADELINE ~ SWEET ADELINE
by Maria Williams ©
Background garden images taken on our recent visit to the amazing
Hunter Valley Gardens, Sydney, Australia
Musicians
Harp - Rolando Cristaldo
Violins: Fátima Benítez
Celeste Osorio
I wonder from all the seasons,
which one is me?
How do nature's elements
define my identity?
When clouds reflect judgement,
it does not matter what they think,
I do not reflect what they see.
I've seen petals blossom through concrete,
felt the turbulent tears of Everest's crumbling peaks
and I know
I'm no master of destiny, but I believe in fate.
As butterflies depart in the season of diversity,
I see green crumble from crimson to brown -
still they dance in the wind.
As the earth beneath me hardens
within the
secret garden of my mind,
weeds die, like frozen spirits.
I allow erratic winds to whistle,
as my soul sleeps silently,
unaware of the snowstorm
cold does not define me.
April showers soften sleeping meadows,
the fireball in the sky, hints upon his return.
I ponder how nature's palette will paint
her poetry upon this season's empty canvas
we all fall, but we keep the faith for re-growth.
The soul rejoices upon sight of the Gemini moon,
blooming through the constellation of twins,
adrift in tranquil warm air, under serene blue skies.
Surrounded by an abundance of kaleidoscopic petals,
their delicate fragrance, becomes my poetry,
an expression of character and personality
I ponder, maybe this is me.
Silent One
Simple musing
27 May 2019
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
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".
Hope, A Little Remained
She walked the creaking floors of the rat-infested room,
trying to remember what tragedy had sent her to this shabby place.
Her heart felt the desperate pains, that lost love sends in aching waves,
praying her sleeping infant does not wake and cry out from its feverish thirst.
He paced the cold cell, languishing in deep misery, heart shattered,
each step an eternity echoing curses, a testament to his broken pride.
Although thousands of miles apart, he felt her loss, never-ending sorrows,
dawn would come, priest would take his last confession, yet Hope remained.
7-03-2018
For Silent One's, eight lines of fate, when you wonder if it is too late.
i sit lonely.
the crowded restaurant is thick with sound
i pick away at it
moving back into the stagnant silence
of my own comfort
the air is nasty here
it telepathically abuses my thought patterns
still
a far cry better
the loud hum of food
marching to the vacant crowd
suffocates me
a decorated plate joins my table
strikes a conversation with the cutlery
there is no call from the governor
as i attack my food
fork knife teeth
bites later
a paper plane flies in
a swipe of my plastic
makes quick work of the bill
i exit
seemingly quicker
than human eyes can catch
i hate this part
i parley my way through
too many bodies
all the while staring
at a concrete maze
never making eye contact
with a single soul
i do that
i always do that
keep the entrances of my being
away from those who would stare me down
attempt to engage me in conversation
with a desire to lock eyes
if they looked in they would burn
i’d be held responsible
FINALLY
home
the only environment i feel safe in
my therapist will be proud
almost an hour today
assuming i see her again
i am covered in my own dew
my breathing sporadic
i line up an array of pills like good soldiers
as i continue my attempt
survive another day
it will take hours to regain my sanity
all the while questioning the purpose
why must i assimilate
back into the dungeons
they call society
it behooves me
find one reason
join the rank and file
plug back into a horrendous grid
i had escaped
i
grow
weary
of
my
own
thoughts
ignore my voice
slowly regain my footing
plant roots
hope they’ll take hold
attempt to return
into the vacuum of my existence
i sit lonely.
Are Flowers for Picking?
I question myself,
silently standing beside
the quaint wooden kiosk
in the centre of the square.
My eyes scan the freshly
picked assortment of roses,
carnations, lilies, and orchids.
The array of colours tempts,
softening niggling doubts
arising from tender pity.
I enter the hospice, briskly
making my way to her room.
Her haggard face lights up,
slightly masking her fragility.
A wan withering rose…
I swiftly hide my pain
behind a loving smile and
the fresh flowers in my hand.
-------------------------------
Placed 1st in Brian Strand's
Pick 1 Contest (April 2020)