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Best Prose Poetry Poems

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New Prose Poetry Poems

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

Upon My First Rereading by Vinson, Doug
The Magic Touch by Vinson, Doug
WHO LOVES YOU MORE by ogufere, emmanuel
SOMETIMES I WONDER by ogufere, emmanuel
Death: A Mysterious Truth by Dhiman, Amit
WHAT HAVE YOU SEEN by ogufere, emmanuel
SOLDIER STRUGGLE by ogufere, emmanuel
WHY TRY by ogufere, emmanuel
WHAT IS LOVE SUPPOSED TO BE by ogufere, emmanuel
YOU LOOK AT ME AND I SEE YOU by ogufere, emmanuel

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The Best Prose Poetry Poems

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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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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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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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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. *** Written for contest: Practiced Passion Sponsor: Frank Herrera November 9, 2016


Copyright © Darren White | 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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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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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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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

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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

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A SLave's Cry

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


Copyright © April Mitchell | Year Posted 2013

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Language Barrier

I couldn’t understand the language she spoke,

at least not all of it,

but the emotion pouring past her lips, 

the tears in her eyes, her clenched and shaking fists

enunciated more clearly,

than any piece of English Poetry I had ever read,

and grabbed me, held me still.

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

In that finite, tender breath of our lives,

she was my mother, my best friend…

but I could not console her. 

I didn’t have the words;

and my heart sank into the 

concrete between us,

wet with the pain of God’s rain

and her tears. 

                  …Were my tears

So, I simply opened my palms

toward her crouched form and 

spoke the only words I could 

fathom, that would be accepted

by a stranger on a dangerous street. 

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

I knew she did not understand…

"Lo siento" 

                  “que va a estar bien”    

                            “Dios te bendecira’ “ 

the words were as messy as the overturned

duffle bag at her feet…and fumbled, slowly

from my lips, as my knees hit the street.

Two strangers, cried in the rain,

knowing nothing of each other’s suffering,

and yet we shared the weight,

together, for those few moments;

the barrier of language was broken.

Love spoke for us.  

-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.

…Love transcends any language

               


Copyright © James Kelley | Year Posted 2014

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Stargazer

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…


Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2013

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This Poem Is Who I Am With Everybody

       This Poem Is Who I Am With Everybody.

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2013

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ON THE WAVES OF LOST MEMORIES

    


   ON THE WAVES OF LOST MEMORIES…

These salted memories tell stories
The oceans and seas gave birth to.

Over the tempestuous waters
Echoes from the bellies of slave ships
Ride the tides of history

Spreading ripples over the shores
Of time proclaiming forgiveness
For lost souls.

We sashay along bleached beaches 
Where white sands mask the shed blood;
And splashing waves drown out
The ghost echoes of rattling chains:

We no longer remember
Our beginnings here.


Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015

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YOU ARE THE ONE


l. Opening the closet of narra doors, I sweep through organza skirts and gemmed ringlets; my hair ruffling aimlessly upon scalloped kerchiefs smelling decade - old hyacinth, Mom’s favorite ambrosia: she would lift her anklets in tiptoed hums, ”night and day, you are the one..” Evenings touched her candle hands; hands that soothed wounded knees from jackstone fights; her fingers caressing a pony -tailed girl’s wrath with piano keys rippling into a gentle moan; “night and day you are the one…” And i am delivered from my tempestuous rants. ll. From nowhere, the porcelain mirror gazed at me; her rhythm of silence billows, cradling my nights with each veil of her almond eyes that enter into my irises: a serene sight too close, much too tight I clung to her unspoken word. Through years, I grew like a bamboo shoot: her quiet smiles and music walked me through reality’s maze. And how I would wail bearing the grim of hard study, coughing late, late hours of reading toil…yet, she stayed like a moth with charm flushed in a wind of calm gaze, ebbing . lll. And only Mom could melt my temper when my raging soul paused to wonder at her light’s glow: oh, her feminine beat illumined more lamplights dancing inside this rebellious head… and now, she hovers around me. I become her eyes, chanting, “night and day, you are the one” ; never balking at my surreal conquests. She is gone bequeathing warmth into my torched flights without question; with much love dripping from her graceful movement, straying all through these my breaths: “night and day, you are the one…” Best Sad Poem Ever Contest of Laura Loo Resubmitted 8/28/2016


Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2014

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L'Italia del Nonno - Drunken Pen Contest

It's addsurd! Who's going to veliebe his lies? Who's going to bote for him? Plutocracy in these times? To besmear American reputation?... with just a cl-ass... exercising its power by birtue of its wealth...and the legislators...aligators... those who considered themselves... the best...to receive... hiccup!...from lobbies. Or is it Oligarchy? ... or Aristocracy? It's one of those "cracy." Or is it this glass of wine? The old Lady from Arizona had endorsed him. Ha! He must not ve bery happy with it. Wrinkles of xenophobia... legalized discrimimination. Excuses, lies, and negligence... Somebody has to pay for the vroken dishes...in doggy perceptions without style... knocking at the door of their prejudice... trespassing upon their addsurd generalizations ... satisfying their own prommmiscuous imagination...they tend to destroy the ebbidence ... coloring just coloring, coloring, coloring. Pickpocketing their errant misconceppttions... their exiled spiritualility... their mind in poverty...guilty of  larceny, of stupididity, of biolence...On the other hand, an extended hand at traffic lights trying to get what they could ...some change...coins...rusted coins which were never thrown into a fountain... no need of wishes. Trevi fountain and Anita, Marcello, Federico...La Dolce Vita. L'Italia del nonno. Another inmigrant but in another country... Argentina, where foreigners went to work the land and were accepted with open arms. L'Italia del nonno. I need to go to visit his streets, his old towns, his Mediterranean sea, his Sicily... Rome and the Trevi Fountain...Anita, she reminds me of another woman... I thought I had forgotten her and her plunging necklines...sophistitication, style, glamor...lip balm, lip boosters, lip conditioner, lip gloss, lip liner, lip plumper, lip primer. Arden's Red Door never considered  the gag reflex for a pearl necklace. That's elegant; I should use that line. She should use the makeup remober at the morning vefore she wake up to sleep. Sleeping veauty: a porcelain...gorgeous outside - empty inside. Was it Arden or Rubinstein? or Lauder? "Pleasure"...her perfume still lingers... memories from a vuried past. She used to call me but I let her go. She knows how to cuckook. I miss her Cannelloni and Lasagna.L'Italia del nonno... The land that he had to leabe...Nero, Caligula, Machiavelli, Dante's Inferno,The Borgias, Mussolini. Hiccup!... Who's going to bote for him? Re-election never sounded so good...


Copyright © Ruben O. | Year Posted 2012

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Echoes Of The Heart

                      ~Echoes Of The Heart.~
                                      
Yesterday she was carrying a void felt deep in her heart its echo 
was begging someone to fill her needs to be free to love & venture 
through society accept to socialize allow her heart to search for a 
different attitude towards life to fill her emptiness. Its so hard 
to keep up with those changes of feelings without finding solutions. 
She prayed her consciousness to stop listening to voices 
of loneliness.

Fear obliged her soul to escape from being locked in an arena 
with lions to mutilate her spirit due to feebleness. 
She wept why she could not fly like a bird to the sky and land 
on the sand stand and wave to thee unknown ask to be rescued .

She wished anyone could send a feather with the wind towards 
her hearts echo, as a whisper of connecting. 
The more time passed the more her heart felt deserted, she couldn't 
walk as her feet were stuck in the cement. 

The void was getting stronger she doesn't know why, maybe if she 
rings a bell someone will come looking for her, she doesn't want to 
know anymore why she feels confused in her own battle of survival.

Nobody knows why the echo inside her heart was far from listening, 
refusing to respond to the same philosophy she had a few years ago, 
she was strong, accepting, walking, breathing normal, but what is normal, 
she seems to be very far away from changing to normal, she wants to 
give up fighting and drown with all her feelings only to surface when
she understands and becomes normal.

Maybe the winter cold and snow are all over her body she must be 
frozen as her breathing is waiting for a sign to pump some air into 
her lungs, she tried but when she looked outside it was so somber,
her emotions begged to stop thinking, only exist for the moment. 

When the night will surround her darkness she will be born again to 
fill her own aloneness, she writes poetry and reads books, she  
shares her thoughts with her own thoughts, and wonder how sad 
just to survive because one has to, today her wish is to let go and
trigger her feelings to take an ugly turn by vanishing without even 
leaving a note why? She needed desperately to listen to the echos 
emerging from her heart telling her what to do, she will wait.

Because her wishes could not find someone to love and breath the 
same air at that advanced age, that was the reason why existing was 
not worth it anymore, she was ready to let go of her spirit and soul, 
suddenly her hearts echo grew louder forbidding her not to run 
towards her night table where she had all her medications, but reach 
out to God befriend Him and sleep with the thought of waking up for 
another tomorrow to remain alive and stay in love.

Tonight her echo was urging her to chatter with her thoughts 
and listen to her echo echoing that her lover of 43 years will 
come back, do not panic, he left to explore his own path and 
listen to his own echo while flying away for an intermission 
to feel what his heart wants him to do. 
You must desire the same energy that your hearts echoes fly 
together towards your doorsteps and place that outstanding 
red rose a sign of love for your tomorrows. 

Knowing your love is & was an everlasting love
time Is your witness, wait for him, he will be back.

Therese Bacha
20/3/2013


Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2013

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A Girl From Darfur

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



__________________________________________________
 8/28/2014
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.


Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2014

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TOLERANCE

                         TOLERANCE

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”
than themselves.

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 


Copyright © John lawless | Year Posted 2014

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It's All About Me

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 
from myself 

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 

My voice 
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 
only rocks 

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 

Therese Bacha
14 November 2014.


Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2014