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New Prose Poems

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

B15-POEM 21 I CAN'T LOSE YOU by WELLS, JERRY BIGPAPA
B14-POEM 19 MY MOST WONDERFUL DREAM by WELLS, JERRY
B14-POEM 18 I AM A DREAM LOVER by WELLS, JERRY
B14-POEM 17 MY THOUGHT OF YOU by WELLS, JERRY
B14-POEM 16 OUR REASON TO SMILE by WELLS, JERRY
B14-POEM 15 I AM DREAMING OF YOU by WELLS, JERRY
B14-POEM 14 IT COULD ONLY BE by WELLS, JERRY
B14- POEM 13 BELIEVE IN LOVE by WELLS, JERRY
b14-POEM 12 MY DREAM OF YOU by WELLS, JERRY
b14- POEM 11 THEY WISH by WELLS, JERRY

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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

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Ambient tavern

The heart needs no permission to love,
but on the journey of love,
its path can become an infatuation.

I swear, I did not touch a drop of wine,
it was her tears that intoxicated me.
The more they flowed..  Further I drank; 
confused by extreme desire.

In amazement to her every glance,
I became her willing devotee.
Her presence brought perfumed winds,
blowing fragile petals upon her path..

Without her permission,
not once did I drink,
but her aroma captivated my senses.
Manipulating my demeanour into a drunkard.

God, do not judge me from my appearance,
for I did not know of your existence -
nor care for it, until her companionship.
What I did not find amongst crumbling bricks,
I saw through her mysterious eyes.

Do not lay the blame upon her,
my beloved's persona beckoned my soul.
Now it dances within her ambient tavern.
I swear, I've become a prisoner of her magnificence.
If I worship her, they will call me an idolater,
but I've never had affiliation with faith,
but in her grace, I fall to my knees.

If I worship her, they will label me an infidel,
So, I've become her silent worshipper.
Following a path of muted dulcet blossoms,
treading softly, so that a thorn does not slash my worn soles.

Her voice vibrates my heart,
her absence tears it apart..

26 September 2016
Silent One
Simple musings



Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2016

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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Listen to the warm

"It happens just because we need to want, and to be wanted too, when love is here or gone to lie down in the darkness and... listen to the warm.” -Rod McKuen Listening to the song 'aint now sunshine when she has gone', it reminds me how cold life is when my Leila Rose is distant. Just one sound of the tenderness of her voice brings warmth to my heart. I sit and ponder how blessed I am to have such a beautiful woman in my life. Those chocolate brown eyes take me to a place every man deserves to go. Yet, I miss them so much, Just like her timid smile. I've never seen her smile that way with anyone else. To say my darling is my angel is an overused statement, but an understatement when it comes to her. In a world where a man is misunderstood, Leila loves me with compassion and affection. When all others are gone, it is her who protects me and keeps me warm. In her arms, I am lost, but feel at home. Without her, life makes very little sense. When I am misunderstood, only my sweetheart understands. This role of her lover is a difficult challenge, but one with great pleasures. Those who are patient are always rewarded. The woman you love always has a special smell, that her soul-mate will recognize and how I miss that aroma. Her tantalizing touch speaks a language to my head, that only she holds the key to. I have so much love running through my veins, in her presence it will burst, for it desires to feel real love. Without her my heart has this void and only Leila can complete it. Life is a monotonous existence of sighs, until Leila returns to bring sunshine back into my life. Oh my distant beloved, the fragile rose that leaves me intoxicated. When you want something more than life itself, there are mysterious forces that work hard to make it happen. These are secret messages; listen to them and believe in them. I love you and I believe in miracles. One day we will be together until eternity.
8 May 2016 Listen To The Warm-Prose - Poetry Contest by Laura Loo


Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2016

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I DANCE

Listen to poem:
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


Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2016

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THE MISSIONARY AND THE BUM



There once was a bum. He 
was the neighborhood drunk. 
He had a unkempt demeanor. 
His salt and pepper had not 
been washed in years.The 
clothes he wore were  ragged.
His shirt had giant holes in them.
He looked twice his age. In his 
drunken state he cursed every-
one that came his way.His smell 
was so horrible you might as well
say he showered in whiskey.That 
didn't bother this young missionary 
who lived nearby.Every day she would 
bring the old bum food and clothing.
She would offer him shelter as well.
"Hi sir . How are you today?"
"Why don't you just leave me alone. 
Can't you see I don't want to be 
bothered."he stated with a slur.
"Sir I'm going to leave your food and 
your clothing right here". As she said 
those words she bent down and placed 
his things on the ground.This was their
routine for well over a year.But on this
in particular day the ole drunk appear-
ed to be coherent. He was sober.As 
the young missionary approached him
she said, "Hi Sir. How are you today?"
"I'm fine ma'am. How are you?"
"I'm well Sir. Are you hungry today?"
I brought you some food and water
and some clothes and shoes."He 
shook his head no.
"Ma'am  I don't want anything.How-
ever I do appreciate it so. I'm going
home today."
His statement took her by surprise.
"Sir I didn't even know you had a 
home."
"Ma'am I do indeed have a home. 
I'm homeless by choice. I want you
to know your kindness will not go 
unnoticed."
She knew it wasn't right to judge but 
she thought to herself he has gone 
insane.
" Miss I stopped believing in God a
long time ago but your loving kind-
ness showed me God today."  
"Okay Sir.I'm going to leave these
things and I will see you later.How-
ever the next day the old bum was 
not in his usual spot. And sad-
ness overwhelmed her spirit. That 
old bum had become a big part of
her life. She grew to love him very
much. As the days went by she con-
tinued to look for him and he wasn't 
there. It was as though he dropped
off the face of the earth.Today was 
a beautiful day and she was at the
corner,  in the spot where the bum 
sat.Deep in her thoughts as she be-
gan to walk she nearly bumped into 
someone. As she was about to speak 
she saw this well groomed middle
aged man with dashing good looks.
" Hi Ma'am. How are you?" She recog-
nized the handsome stranger's voice 
instantly.
"Sir is that you?"  She asked just to
 make sure her mind wasn't playing 
tricks on her.
"Yes Ma'am it is me. I just came by
 to formally thank you for all of the
 kindness you showed to me. I was in
raggedy clothes and never once did
you show disgust. You see I am a 
millionaire that had lost his way. You 
see my wife of nearly thirty years got 
ill and passed away. In that moment I 
lost my mind because my home didn't
exist anymore."
As he finished telling his story little 
tears began to fall from her eyes.
Through small sobs she said,
 " I'm sorry for your loss. I will con-
tinue to pray to God on your behalf."
" Ma'am your prayers is why I stand 
here today.If God had not sent you 
my way I would probably still be lost. 
Please don't cry for me I will be okay". 
He reached in his pocket and pulled
out an old business card and handed
it to her.
"Take my card. Feel free to call me any-
time. All that  I have now belongs to you. 
Do you remember that day when I told
you that your loving kindness would not
go unnoticed?"
As he said those final words he turned
and left, leaving the young missionary 
dumbfounded.


 

10-29-16
Alexis Y


Copyright © Alexis Y. | Year Posted 2016

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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

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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

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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

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Summon winds of change

My shadow cries tears, not visible through my eyes. Burning rage remains concealed, reluctant to appease infiltrators who hide behind intangible ideologies. I'm tired from throwing stones at the devil, fatigued from false promises; elaborated by imperialistic leaders, whose words are fragile like ballet dancers, whose actions resemble concrete boulders. How can people change the world, when they can't change themselves. How can they cleanse the hearts of others, when their hearts and minds remain corrupt. Instead of repeating the same things, walking upon the same trodden path, contradicting our beliefs, principles and morals, should we not start by accepting each other? If only we were all blind to prejudice: colour, age, gender, race, religion, sexual orientation, would not matter - nor would borders. We would all be free. Maybe if we looked at humans, like we glance at flowers. Maybe if our mindset remained at peace, like the first time we hold our child. Maybe if we became intoxicated by love, rather than fall deep into the realms of hate. What if love was the currency, how greedy would you be? What if our breaths healed the environment, rather than our actions polluting it. What if our eyes became empathetic, with our tears of compassion healing the broken. So many 'what ifs' and so many 'maybes', one person alone can't change the world, it can only be changed arm in arm. Together we can summon the winds of change, so that tomorrow our children can live in peace.
28 July 2016 If I could change the world poetry contest by Becca Teagan


Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2016

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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

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Beloved mother's garden

Mother sat in her aromatic garden,
admiring its charm and grace.
It was a cold morning, 
but mother never seemed to feel it any more.
Her eyes were tired, life's horrors had taken their toll,
yet the smallest things filled them with joy.
Like the perennial ivory lilies blossoming
among her loyal, royal forget-me-nots.
The tranquil scent of lilac lavender, blooming
among radiant Jerusalem sage, always made her smile.
Her hands were wrinkly, but resilient,
despite years of hard work as a single mother.
Still strong enough to tend to her grandiose display
of ruby red, aureolin yellow and puce pink roses.
Mother always told me the thorns were like knights,
there to protect the rose's fragility, that a woman
is a man's most precious flower, requiring tender care.
Evergreen conifers paraded along the perimeter of
my beloved mother's garden like a colony of soldiers
protecting a beautiful, yet delicate, Japanese cherry blossom tree.
Mother always told me it reminded her about life,
how everything was temporary, just like its fragile buds
that only blossomed in the spring and the lightest breeze blew them away.
Mother had taught me so much and was my inspiration,
picked me up when I was defeated, taught me that only in defeat do we learn.
When the world tried to change me, taught me to accept myself,
to love myself before I could love others and be true to who I am.
As I sat with my mother admiring the beauty of the seeds sown,
melancholic tones flooded my emotions, wondering how I would cope without her.
Was I selfish wishing to die before her, so I would not have to mourn for her;
but that would be so heartbreaking for her, who would have to mourn for me.
My contemplation was interrupted by an outbreak of rain.
Mother simply smiled and reminded me, "Rain is mercy from God, my son."

26 February 2016



Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2016

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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

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A Love Letter to My Friends of India

When I think of India, I think of dark eyed beauties, their foreheads painted with decorative red dots, and I see them moving deliciously in beautiful bright costumes as bangles dangle from their slender wrists. When I think of India, I think of a culture steeped in history and tradition: folkloric music, myths, and dance, and the influence of the Hindu religion. I visualize the rich and poor alike bathing themselves in a river called Ganges. I see an olden time when mighty elephants, colorfully decorated, carried men atop their backs on elegant elephant seats, and I recall pictures in my geography studies of the white sacred cows freely roaming the narrow streets of Delhi. I recall a novel I read: Rudyard Kipling’s engrossing tale of a jungle boy and also other novels depicting a clash of cultures as the British imposed their rules on Indian society. I think of current movies showing the seedy side of India such as one named Slumdog Millionaire and a movie to contrast it, the romantic Bollywood delight named JabTak Hai Jaan. Furthermore, I recall the grace and good nature of the Indian people depicted in a film called The Best Ever Exotic Marigold Hotel. When I think of India, I think of the Taj Mahal, Kama Sutra, and curry, and also I recall horrible stories of Bride burnings now banned and by contrast, the good works of Mother Teresa, who labored there among the poor, and I think of the man who is probably the most recognized by Americans as a good and strong example of leadership: Mahatma Ghandi. All these things are the sum of what I have learned about India in my lifetime. But what do I really know of India? What I have learned recently relates to poets I have come to know at this website and who have shown me through their poetry and their communication with me, a more personal side of the Indian people that I never used to know. Through the poetry of Ravindra I have learned the love of an Indian for his heritage and how he emulates his father‘s work through beautiful translations. From poets like BL and Jag, I’ve learned more about the deep and philosophical nature of the Indian poet! Through great friendships with people like Kashinath, Yesha and Yasmin, and Guatami I have come to learn about the actual personalities of dear Indian people whose life experiences, struggles and desires are not so different from my own, and also I am able to enjoy their eloquent words as they describe their own emotions, passions, and love of nature through their poetry. Perhaps their culture adds a flavoring to their words and phrases that is a bit different from my own, but in the end, we are all alike beneath the skin. Whether from India or any other country, we are, all of us, becoming a part of a global community in which our differing backgrounds can be accepted and even better - celebrated! Thank you I say to all my poet friends whose words enrich my life, but in particular, today I thank my friends from India, for helping me to really see how beautiful you are and to understand your country better through knowing YOU.


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2013

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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

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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

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The boy who defied gravity

He first felt the taste of death when introduced into the world.
Each time he exhaled life, he inhaled death.
In a small plastic box he battled against suffocation.
Although he began to breathe,
poisonous seeds had laid their foundations.
Visions of death were never far away,
with images of the Grim Reaper haunting.
As he advanced in his journey, painful torment, 
a distasteful passenger; followed meticulously.
In his depths of deepest despair,
something inside continually gave him hope.
In darkness, he illuminated the world,
in his troubles, he forgot how to cry.
Maybe his eyes had run dry.
In restless night, he inspired those who had lost their way.
Touched the hearts of those alone; ignited the fire of those asleep.
News of the death of his loved ones, 
would once again pierce his eyes.
But, when you have dealt with so much pain,
all emotions are momentary.
In his quest to stimulate absent minds,
his emotion of happiness lay in slumber.
Nobody understood; nobody really asked why,
in solitude, he walked among restless tides,
blew like tepid vapours; lay abandoned like sea shells.
Cancer became a silent lullaby,
eventually his opportunity to say goodbye.
This time he did not let death leave alone,
grasped tightly as one last tear left his eye.
You could not see his wings, among ethereal light,
but somehow... He defied gravity.

10 April 2016


Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2016

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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

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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

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In another time

They say: " Fate is out of your control and destiny is what you are meant to do." I guess, some things in life are not meant to be, but then why would fate bring two people together when it is not their destiny. Circumstances in life can mean two hearts with a powerful spiritual connection cannot meet, because of the obstacles of distance. What use is a bee if it cannot produce nectar, what use is a tree if it cannot produce oxygen and what use is love if two beloveds cannot unite. Their frustrations burn with the agony of not knowing, torn between the emotions of the heart and the ego of the mind. Love is invisible, you do not see it, only feel it. It is an intangible phenomenon that everyone will experience in their life time. The touch, voice and sight of the beloved is like no other. To feel the breath of a loved one upon your face, to gaze into their eyes, to kiss their lips and to merge, drowning in an ocean of passion are fundamentals of love, so many take for granted. Whilst those apart can only dream of such pleasures. Someone once said: "Life is a balance of holding on and letting go." A heart cannot spend years in the wilderness and a human needs physical contact. Do you listen to your heart and keep the hope or do you succumb to your mind and walk away. Love never dies and you never stop loving someone. Sometimes in life you may have to settle for second best. Maybe in another place and in another time - she would have been mine...
21 July 2016 Simple musings, fictional poem for contest. (written in ten mins) In Another Time - Poetry Contest by Ir0nic ZiNk


Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2016

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On Childhood

Listen to poem:

It's a very important box one we will be passing on. bombs pollutionglobalwarming warslotsofwarshate racismbullyingguns narcissismfakefood liesisolationismvirus badrolemodelssugar tonprescriptiondrugs It's our children's future what will we fill it with?


Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2016