Prose Poem | |
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.
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,
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
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,
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
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.
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,
© Drake J. Eszes
More great poems below...
Prose Poem | |
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,
“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
Prose Poem | |
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
Prose Poem | |
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.
Prose Poem | |
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
Chris D. Aechtner
Prose Poem | |
Under 65 degree starry, onyx blanket
Containment of quarter moon identity
A whimsically soothing song exuded
In muffled taps & Prohibition era lyric
In the distance,
Snow-capped mountains reflecting lunar clarity
Off its tips of freedom
As we lay on recycled steel hood,
Made in 1950s USA, when it mattered,
Her silhouetted fingertips released from my right arm
While insistently looking towards stratosphere’s vocal chord
“Can’t it be like this forever?
Oh, how I want to just make love to the stars.
Become one with Orion while riding
On Sagittarius’s arrow”
“What about our stars?”, he softly questioned.
“I’d like to be your never-ending shooting star.
To ride on blue moon’s comet, by your side”
Cricket whispers manhandled his romantic clef
Mother Nature’s afterglow, upon her ears, fallen deaf
Inherent waxy build-up from illicit tongue,
She pat his shoulders like a dog
Being taught his first lesson
Her eyes, still sky high.
“Sigh, I like how you think.
You’re such a nice friend.
You’re going to make a woman so happy one day.
I hope to meet a guy just like you.”
As her eyes sighed with a powerful lack of substance
Into the arms of Leo,
A slammed car door supplants the reverberation of the car’s V8 engine.
He confidently turns back the hands of time.
Reversal gears become his new tune
“If you get lost going home, follow the stars.”
As he pulls away with majestic, amplified lyrics
Of Whitesnake’s “Here I go Again”
Going down the only road he’s ever known
While she stands in fraudulent gasps of shock,
Looking back up to the stars in blank wonder
As he accelerates into a new page in his book
Closing his chapter with wondrous questions
“Why would I taste your starlight?
When you never believed in our constellation?”
©Drake J. Eszes
It’s good to gaze at the stars and make wishes. But, be careful what you wish for. For Earth has its own gifts…
Prose Poem | |
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
Prose Poem | |
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 : )
Prose Poem | |
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.
Prose Poem | |
I have little tolerance for tolerant people.
Those that will endure the corruption of
the truth, the erosion of meaning. While at
the same time being intolerant of your
opinions, thoughts, and level of tolerance.
There is a quote attributed to Voltaire:
“I disapprove of what you say, but I will
defend to the death your right to say it.”
How many of the “tolerant” would be willing
to fight for our right to “disapprove of what
they say”? Hush the crowd so that we might
be heard? Unblock their ears and hearts and listen?
Does the present day “tolerance”
lack tolerance, lack understanding,
lack the ability to endure a voice that
is not in tune, does not sing the same
song, does not pray the same prayer?
Or do they tolerate, put up with, the “fool”,
while denying acceptance of his opinions,
his beliefs. Perhaps the fool is more tolerant than they.
Listening to what they say, watching how they
carry themselves, interact with those “different”
For they think him a “fool”, because they do
not know that he thinks, what he thinks,
and most sadly, they do not care to know.
They will tolerate his presence but not allow
him to be present, listen to his voice yet hear
nothing, speak of equality while lauding their
position, education, power over him.
For they are tolerant only of themselves,
of their ideas, their thoughts, their peers,
their alleged - equals.
They disapprove of us, and what we say,
and will defend their right to keep it so.
John G. Lawless – 6/9/2014
Prose Poem | |
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
Written: March 26, 2015
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.
Prose 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.
Deep Dark Poem for contest of PD (Win.No 4 ) 22/2/2013
Prose Poem | |
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,
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.
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.
As if she read my mind,
“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
Prose Poem | |
I can show you where the brimstone sun has no remorse,
and where devils on horseback, have burned our homes, have pillaged our farms.
A killing spree, the drum of guns, some tried to flee, but died,... each one.
The screams, I dream! Oh, the cries........the cries.......
I try to mute the sound of them
For..., I was there, I hid in fear, was somehow spared, but now I look for
something, ...something, ...something, here, ...someone to care.
A bit of food, a bit of shade, such bitter taste is in my mouth
A world of hate. To have no shoes,...a walking ghost.....
a blistered soul, I have no hope.... but nothing, nothing left.
My eyes are blurred, and fires burn, a heavy world, shouts out despair.
Where are the flowers that used to bloom, where are voices, that once I knew?
There are no flowers here...just flies, in waist-deep dust, and a hot orange sun,
that coughs up sounds of fear and guns, and swords and words against my ears, I
live in fear with no one here.
I'm just a girl, or at least I was.... for just a while.
I was defiled, when found by one
He spared my life, but did not see, I'd rather die than be this girl, who feels the
shame in being free.
I once had a mother, I once had a father, I once had a brother who made me smile
Where did spirits, lift and go, when the devils on horseback came to kill? Spilling
blood as if for fun? For thrill? For what?
Where were the Gods? Where are the ones who turn their heads?
In desert's dust with blood red crust. They poisoned our wells, burned out our land,
ravished and raped, and relished their brand......,
nomads came, leaving shame, evil and horror came like rain.
Janjaweed, the name, I cannot say... I live with shame, a world, insane
I try to sleep, but I cannot........I can't forget and I am lost, the cost too much,
a swollen tongue and calloused feet, across a land of bleached white bones
Alone, alone,....lost and done...a vanished heart......no one sees me
There are no flowers, there are no trees,
Famine as my lone companion, a pool of mud a home to stay,
Life drains out more every day, my belly swells....my eyes are parched,
and I can't tell
if I'm alive, or if I'm dead, dried up tears are what I shed....
Where are the flowers for my head? I've been scorned,
all I have, and all I see is wind and rain, sorrow and pain
thorns, and dust, and a grave, that waits for me
Devils on Horseback – The Darfur genocide (ongoing) The Janjaweed (translated,
devils on horseback) slaughter and rape the women, men and children of Darfur. As
of today, 480,000 people have been “exterminated” and 2.8 million displaced.
Let's not turn our heads away from this, or from other atrocities being committed
throughout the world.
Prose Poem | |
I had nowhere to turn, had nowhere to go,
this is just something ,I think you need to know!
I don't know what made me trust you,
I still remember the day, when I told what I had been through!
I thought, I should jump off, or go hide in a hole,
but then I followed whatever you told!
As each day grew longer, my trust became stronger!
Each time I wanted to cry, you stayed there right by my side!
Then I moved to the twelfth grade,
I was really afraid, that my trust would slowly fade,
But I was very wrong, the bond is still strong!
Even Though you don't have time, you at least ask me if I am fine!
You are just seen for a while,with your contagious smile!
And then you walk away and you are out of sight,
I smile and then things are alright!
I am so glad,that you were there when I was sad!
You are the one on whom I can always depend,
And this is what makes you...MY BEST FRIEND
Prose Poem | |
Susan Boulet was an artist 1941-1997
Her paintings are famous for their layered effects which she started later on in her artistic career. She loved fantasy which is easily seen in her paintings. This is my fantasy poem as I look at this beautiful picture painted by Susan Boulet.
The old man sits quietly on the hillside, knowing his days as one
Spirit would soon be coming to an end. He stares blankly at the heavens where the pale blue sky is the backsplash for Cumulus clouds now filling in, the horizon. He chants his prayer over and over again calling his brothers to come receive his spirit and be one with him for all eternity. Brother bear, cloak me with the warmth of your coat that we may walk through each winter and never be cold again. We will stand together as one, never again will we know fear. Brother wolf fill my heart with your loyal spirit that we may rise to heights of a love greater than any human could possibly achieve. His prayer seems to rise more intensely as he continues. Mighty cat, share with me your speed that we may be faster than the wind, jumping through the clouds as one. Wise and good owl, become one with us that we shall have wings to fly as eagles and wisdom to find eternal peace. Now the old man whispers, together we shall hold the secrets of the universe in our hands. Soon his chin drops down on his chest as a smile crosses his face, and the old frail body crumbles to the hard rocky ground. Then the cry of a wolf, the hoot of an owl and simultaneously the roars of a sabre-toothed and bear echo through the valley. As darkness fills the sky and the moon is high, the silhouette of a young warrior stands proudly on the bluff.
Written by Brenda Meier-Hans
For Debbie Guzzi’s Contest:
Free Verse, Prose Poetry, Haibun
Prose Poem | |
I don't know what came over me that day - an instant of weakness after years of resistance, I suppose.
My beaming spouse leads me, a dog on a short leash, into the forbidden citadel, the sanctum sanctorum of feminine fastidiousness, the dreaded nail salon.
As we pass through the portal, we enter another dimension, one not of Man.
One of Woman.
Overwhelmed by estrogen, like Superman in the presence of Kryptonite, my strength saps.
The harpies in the salon immediately sense fresh meat, hailing my wife like Caesar in a Roman triumph, gleeful in the knowledge of the barbaric sacrifice to follow. Lightheaded, my eyes dart around, a trapped beast seeking escape.
The sacrificial altar is prepared. The torture device is like a dentist's chair, but with a tub for the feet, presumably where they will drain out my blood. Resigned to my fate, I mount the gallows.
Glancing around, it seems that all the employees are Southeast Asians. Mostly young. Reputedly, they own this territory, like Indians in convenience stores or Italian greengrocers. My personal tormentor is the proprietor, a slim pretty Vietnamese woman perhaps in her mid 50's, with cold eyes and a professional smile.
I immediately sense that I am dealing with She Who Must Be Obeyed. I am commanded in that bossy Asian way to put my feet in the tub, as she turns on the water. Apparently, like some feminine droit du seigneur, Dragon Lady reserves the right to draw first blood from pedicure virgins. My primae noctis, so to speak.
As she sits below me and leans forward to grab my feet, I get a good look at her well-formed cleavage. Maybe this won't be so bad,after all...
As my feet soak, I close my eyes and sink into a Felliniesque fantasy, surrounded by Asian houris garbed in short white Grecian gowns, catering to my manly whims.
I'm getting a semi...
Dragon Lady brings me back to reality, placing my left foot on her toweled workspace.
There's another guy here...
and that SOB is getting a manicure from one of my girlfriends!
An older lady enters the shop. She has an experienced and well-traveled look. Obviously a repeat offender, she immediately begins apologizing to Dragon Lady for her tardiness, meanwhile sizing me up like a slab of man-meat. Dragon Lady gives her a proper scolding, then the horny old biddy tweaks my big toe and flashes me a knowing smile. I wonder if she is packing heat in that big purse...
Suddenly, I become William Holden in Sunset Boulevard. As I make a break for freedom, I am plugged in the back by the scorned Gloria Swanson lookalike.
Then, a cold look from Dragon Lady and my spouse re-establishes territory and Gloria backs off.
Dragon Lady looks pleased as she draws out what appear to be farrier's tools for shoeing horses, presumably to work on my virgin toenails, which I admit are heading toward Fu Manchu territory. A pair of evil-looking wire cutters makes short work of my talons, then she pulls out a chisel and begins removing layers of yellowed nail until they are smooth and white.
Nice. I can take this.
Then she removes the cuticles and pushes back the skin.
Holy crap! I think she just popped my cherry! I see blood on my big toenail. I take it like a man. A bead of sweat runs down my brow.
She finishes the flaying job, puts the foot back into the soothing bath and begins carving up the other one.
"And women pay for this?", I think.
"You like massage?", she asks.
"Massage?" I glance at my spouse nervously, wondering if she intuits the direction of my thoughts.
She points to the control panel on the chair.
"Why, yes. Yes I would!", I reply.
Anything to take my mind off my pending amputation.
"All the way?"
I suppress my licentious thoughts.
"Warp seven, Mr. Sulu."
"To infinity, and beyond!"
She got that one, and turns on the machine. Robocop immediately digs deeply into my neck and spine with his titanium-steel fingers, plowing my vertebral column like a John Deere cultivator. My central nervous system releases a flood of endorphins. The cocktail of pain and pleasure is a masochist's wet dream.
The surgery going on downstairs dissolves into the background...
Dragon Lady puts the second foot back in the tub and removes the first. She pulls out a big cheese grater and goes to work on the bottom of my foot. I don't have thick calluses, but she produces a pretty respectable pile of Parmigiano. Makes short shrift on foot two. My smooth feet now look like a baby's.
Not too bad, not too bad.
My spouse shoots me the old Told You So look and smiles.
Dragon Lady now pulls out the pumice for the final polish. As she goes to work on my foot, nerve endings now exposed after many years return me to infancy.
It tickles! Oh Momma, does it tickle!
I'm giggling like a young girl. I can't stop, and I really don't want to either. The entire salon joins in my giggle fest.
Dragon Lady doesn't let up for a second. She is giggling too, and for the first time I see the young, innocent Vietnamese girl buried deep inside.
Then I see the napalm and burnt village.
And all the rest of it...
I see and she sees. We each have seen... too much.
She smiles sadly. As do I.
My next appointment is in a month
I'll be there.
September 11, 2014
Prose Poem | |
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
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 )
Prose Poem | |
Dark cumulous clouds contain
the filtered sunlight in a strange
where birds seen in silhouette
seem to think they can sing color
into this this grey day.
Mountains defined by stark dark shapes
fade into the distance as if swallowed
by fog's mysterious whiteout.
I feel encapsulated, as if inside of
a black and white photograph
that only defers to shades of grey.
© Connie Marcum Wong
March 8, 2015
Back Black and white film photography
Poetry Contest Sponsor Giorgio A. V.
Connie Marcum Wong
Prose Poem | |
I believe in lots of things I can't see
My dreams are like a ship's consciousness
drowned in the ocean
I want to live for a reason
How I wish I could resign
How I wish now I was wrapped
on a bed neither to move my hands
nor my feet
I try to feel but I have no feelings
My soul is rich my spirit feels poor
I have a brain that feels unconscious
I got married but was never in love
I am alive yet I wish I was dead
I wanted to stay but I had to leave
I have tears but cannot weep
I've got memories
yet I crave to forget them
I feel a storm coming
without rain or thunder
People die but I cannot mourn
I am friendly but have no friends
I think I am intelligent but I feel numb
I thought I graduated
but threw away my diploma
I have a birthday with no wishes
I dream yet I forget them
I had a castle yet I feel I'm living in a hut
I have courage but I cannot face it
I am a body that looks like a skeleton
My heart beats but I cannot hear it
The sky is blue but I see gray
You dwell too much about the past
that taught you to be so cruel
I loved but nobody loved me
The flowers were blooming
but I saw them dead
I was a violin with broken strings
when I could not hold my anger
If I could only scream to listen to my echo
I rode a horse without a saddle
I was at the beach and I saw no ocean
I walked on the land but felt
My feet were bleeding I cut them off
I wake up at dawn but I feel its dark
I rang the bell nobody opened
I was on the roof top and my soul fell down
I watched a beginning it felt like the end
14 November 2014.
Prose Poem | |
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
Please just three pound a
month for the Daniel
Cheesemans poetry fund.
Prose Poem | |
He buried his face in her. At first gently. Naked his muscles rippled in the morning light. He was beautiful. She was beautiful and he held her as if she were the last raindrop that would ever fall.
In the white of the stone. In the hand of their creator. Her dress flowed like, sat like, curled like silk. Her face spoke even in the stillness of her passing. His body, his presence yelled of a passion unharnessed.
Death by the poison of a venomous snake and you know we all die like this by the hand of a heartless serpent even if by happenstance but still the sculpture painted romance painted love. Screamed into the eyes of the beholder if not for love then what?
Prose Poem | |
My great, great Aunt had a lovely old home,
with many a wonderful story,
hidden within its walls.
A Victorian, architectural designers dream;
vaulted ceilings, full of ghosts;
where spirit voices sang of its splendor.
What I remember most, were the sparkly door knobs;
prisms reflecting the sunlight;
beautiful rainbow colors,
adorning her sitting room walls.
The animated colors of her crystalline chandelier
wove dancing shadows into the fabric.
As a small child, I reveled in that light-play;
how I loved her magical home.
M. L. Kiser
Prose Poem | |
It is a sun splashed day; the air is silent with the sound of waves
from an ocean moving to the rhythm of crying gulls.
The sand underneath my feet is warm and soothing.
The crashing waters from a wind sculpted waterfall swims
into the arms of its mother sea.
It is a private beach at a spot in the world
were the Caribbean Sea and The Atlantic Ocean hug.
It is a strange sensation of hot then cold, that tease the senses.
The young woman with me is my lover of four years.
The golden rays of light from the bright morning star
lives in the flow of her platinum blond hair.
In her eyes I can see the bright clear blue ocean, warm,
but with a piercing love glare that sends shivers up my spine.
We are young, in love and safe
inside a perfect glossy postcard background.
Her red lips and light drenched skin glows
with the beauty of this perfect Jamaican day.
Without a thought I grab the back of her head,
jerking my lover's whole body towards me
locking her in the strength of my grasp
inviting her to quench my desire.
I bite her lips before engaging in a deep passionate kiss
and remove a barely there bikini from her statuesque figure.
She embraces me as I lift her in my arms
naked for all the Gods to observe.
I set her down under the refreshing flow of the rushing waterfall.
She attempts to pull at me, but I deny her.
I hold back both her arms and use my mouth
to suckle her all the time absorbing the beating waters
that kneads my flesh, like so much dough.
Suddenly I set my angel free. She pounces on me,
like a lioness in heat famished for the taste of flesh.
The world disappears and I find myself willingly trapped in a void.
Nature's voice conducts an orchestra of emotion.
We writhe in the ecstasy of touch.
With the strokes of a divinity fingers paint a portrait of rapture.
We dance now to the precise notes
of an escape into the arms of serenity.
In one fluid movement, our bodies become one.
There is no end to the divine flavors we share.
Cooling waters flame our sins.
We explode like a building
imploding gracefully to the roar of infinite sound.
Until eventually we pass out naked
locked in each others arms.
We find ourselves lying on the warmth
of the fine white sand beach when we awaken,
tattooed in the telling shades of a Jamaican suntan.
Prose Poem | |
She was a grand piano: grand in structure, grand in beauty, grand in quality
of sound. She had captured the heart of every pianist who had come to play in
the great hall. Once they touched her keys…they fell in love with the
celestial sounds that resonated from her core.
He was a grand musician, adept at playing several instruments. Music was
what made him come to life…his passion seen in the swaying of his body as he
became enraptured in the sounds. He came looking for her, having heard of
her perfection, and once he touched her, he was captivated.
Night after night the hall was packed with music lovers who came to hear him
play, but they also came to feast their eyes for when he sat there at the
piano…it was almost as if he were in the throes of passion. She made him
pour and release his inner soul in notes that vibrated and pulsated within
every listener’s heart. Passion redefined.
His fame spread. He spent hours every day…sitting there on the stage,
caressing her keys, making her do his bidding…moving her to a forte
crescendo…and then another, soothing her with pianissimo after the
storm of passion was spent.
When did it happen? When had the restlessness taken hold? He couldn’t
remember a specific moment, but at night…after the concerts were over, and
he was there in his room, he would dream of traveling again, and he’d think of
the Stradivarius he had seen for sale in the most renowned music store in
Europe, a store right beside the grand hall. She was a beauty…sleek,
streamlined, shapely, and after he had touched and fondled her, heard the
noise he could bring to life with his flexible fingers, he knew…the time had
come to say goodbye.
All his savings and more went into purchasing that Stradivarius that fit
snuggly under his chin. He could travel with her. She was…lightweight, easy to
carry. She was not stationary.....heavy.
It was the last concert, and he gave that piano his all. The audience sensed a
difference in the man. The room was electrified with the notes of a passion in
bursting from the fusion of man and instrument. The piano had never sounded
so angelic, sweet, replete with every nuance of a lover’s dream. Something
seemed to be tugging at the pianist's heart for before he took his bow, they
saw his eyes wet with tears.
Years passed, his fame grew. He was now known as the master violinist....the
shining star among his contemporaries...one of a kind. He was happy and
famous. He was traveling….light. His Stradivarius was his to finger and play
with every night, a perfect mistress, a perfect muse, yet why…why did he find
himself back in the hall after all this time? He stood there aghast, for all he
could see on the stage was the old janitor, sweeping the floor. “Where is she?”
The janitor squinted at him, trying to remember, and then he gave a sad
smile. “Why…didn’t you hear? It was in all the papers. After you left,
something went terribly wrong with that grand piano. All the notes kept
coming out wrong. It didn’t matter who sat down to play, and to tell you the
truth, some of those pianists were even better than you, or so I heard said.
Nothing sounded right. They brought professional tuners. Everything seemed
alright, but…the music, the music lacked….life. She couldn’t get fixed and so,
in the end….she was sold for scrap pieces to a carpenter who hacked her into
pieces to use for firewood.”
The musician stood there, tears streaming down his face. She had been
heavy, her maintenance difficult, her stationary heart, unmovable. He had
longed to travel light…to relish minimum maintenance demands, to travel far
and wide, like a feather on the breeze…airy and light…oh, so light, but could
someone be found who could explain to him the extreme leaded heaviness in
his heart that rooted him, immovable, to the spot where once a beautiful
grand piano had stood.