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Prose Poetry Art Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Art

These Prose Poetry Art poems are examples of Prose Poetry poems about Art. These are the best examples of Prose Poetry Art poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Prose Poetry |



So if my vocal folds can’t collaborate to produce sounds to communicate loudly to your beautiful mind that I have an endless mission of loving you, can’t there be any mere articulation in my vocal tract to do that? What are my tongue, lips, alveolar ridge, hard palate and velum doing? I never knew that emotions could shut my speech tract. How I wish my speech tract could connect to my heart, so that I can give you a cord of love inserted into my heart, for you to put it into your ears and listen to the words my heart says because I am speechless. I had it in my mind to tell you that you are beautiful, eloquent, and charming. When I drew nigh, I decided to start with the word ‘lady’ to show some decorousness. But I realized my lungs couldn’t even initiate the airstream for my glottis to either widen or narrow to cause my vocal tract to produce the voiceless and voiced sounds in the two syllable word, let alone the nine. Should I comply with those who say action speaks louder than words, so that I can gesture for you to get the feelings better? I thought I was one who could speak like a parrot, but I am now slides before you like carrots. But what could make a spoken word artiste speechless apart from the abnormal? OK! Let’s try establishing causality. The moment I saw you, you blinked your eyes, so probably that muted me. So if you could do that again, it may set me free. Don’t wait for me to tell you that you can cause distraction. Don’t go near a podium mounted by a performer, lest, you will cause distraction. Because that image you carry isn’t what you think. Not even a mermaid, more than strange. Please set me free because you are gradually becoming ‘head of Medusa ‘ , rays from your eyes are communicating with mine and making me motionless like lot’s wife is Sodom and Gomorrah. I came out of volition but it is now at your discretion to let me go, so please take off your eyes and set me free.

Tension within me had converted into electrical energy and burnt my speech tract. So what I am going through is beyond dumb. From a distance, I was in haste to meet you, but the moment I set my eyes on you, as though there were a speed rump- I started moving like a tortoise. What broke the camel’s back was when your eyelids became a canon camera and gave me flash, I became static. I wonder why I am speechless. I wonder why I am speechless. Because I am this man who can stand before a lady and produce lyrics more than ‘sarkology’ album, so I wonder why I am speechless. I could make a lady swim deeper in the pool of sweet words, so I wonder why I am speechless. Movement of my negative lips could attract positive ladies, so I wonder why I am speechless. Perhaps we are both negatives, so we repel. How I wish my vocal folds will touch along their edges from my thyroid and open slightly at my arytenoids to create a creaky sound like ‘huuh’ for you at least get the air of love, but none is working. I have thin vocal folds that can produce nice sounds like the lead guitar, so I wonder why I can’t even stammer. My phonetics is not working, let alone deploy my syntax for you to use your morphology in breaking down the words to achieve semantics.  How unfortunate it is that my speech tract couldn’t let out the words my mind has been saying since the beginning of this piece.


Copyright © CHRISDAD KOJO ARTHUR | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

Unknown Art

The picture painted is not what 
is drawn
The drawer sketches different 
shades partly understood by 
They see and claim to know 
Complexity that is the 
Like most words, the art is not 
defined in a single manner
Many have walked with it not 
minute has discovered
The mystery of the art in play.
A creative piece reflecting 
greatness visible to those with 
eagle eyes.
A lone shadow traveling great 
depth to birth dreams
Not an adjective, pleasing to 
those deserving.
Do not desire to be unveiled.
Priceless value hangs on its tag
What a masterpiece!
But not fully discovered...

Copyright © Yei Suah | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Dream

Strands of thick strawberry lace
Cascade and kindle together over a
Serene and still, velvety muse;
Soft sensations of quiet breath
Brush against every line within the frame;
A luminous comma poses
In an eternal gilt about her face;
Every flicker of her unseen candlelight 
Reflects a somnolent kiss
Upon the gazer's nodding lids.
Magically, the mind reacquaints
A taste and scent of red and yellow ocher, 
Along with the sound of a swoosh,
That permeates a freshly painted room;
Soon, the eyes open to a distant, familiar recall,
When two sleepwalking, kingly eras became one;
Every step blending each image
With a different pallet in time,
And while touching overlapping 
Textures, the mixed mediums are forever
Imprinted upon the memories of the two
Motionless figures;
The connoisseur, while he slumbers
And the sleeper, as she awakens 
From her symbiotic dream.

Contest: "A Dream"
Theme: Based on the painting: "Resting", by Victor Gabriel Gilbert

Copyright © Lisa Lee | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

Egyptian Pharaohs

Your mysticism captivates my world today

Covered in gold and ruins

We try to decode

What you left behind for us so long

Its been five thousand years

And we still feel so lost without you

Let your sun god Ra

Show us the path you took

The pyramids were the keys to your afterlives

Show us how to live our lives

I live in a world covered in blame

With people constantly finding someone else to blame

No boy king in Tut in our day

No Cleopatra ruling any day

Just a lot of villains called politicians

Oh great Egyptian Pharaohs

Show us how you brought prosperity and peace

To your once unstable land

Copyright © Jorge Toro | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |


She sat near a pool of brownish waters.
Perplexed by her own reflection.
The wind tender on her hair,
Tossing it eastward.
Drying her imbrued face,
From days of sobbing,
Leaving dull lines that stretched
From her pale eyes,down her haggard lion.
She never wore a smile
As brilliant as the sun.
They only burn,her.
Reawaking her tears
From their subtle base
Beneath her eyes.
She considered them,a tragic representation of her
She decked her face with cowardice.
Never regretted,nor did she skedaddle from it,
The lies she once told herself.
They were now,dreams she woke up to,now and
Expressionless,she sat,
On cold dead grass.
They sent chills to her bones.
Her mind hovering through the empty space,
That is her her own schema.
And the world that lies beneath her bruised nose,
Covered in blood and fear,
The stench of terror,
Quite familiar to her.
They were like marks on her back.
They stayed with you for a life time.
Misery was something she owned.
They burnt in her dark brown eyes.
You could see their talons lashing restlessly,
Drawing those who cared for a scare.
The tears that flooded her garment
Jog the memory of her own consciousness,
That she still did feel something.
Something painfully passionate.
Something,realer than her fragile image.
Those tears were reminders
Reminding her,that she,can still think.
Think of events that stole
All the life she knew,
Will ever know.
She stood at the edge of destitute,
As hard as it was,
It brought her solace.
Her hopes raise at the east,
Settling west with the sun.
She seeks no remedy,
But an audience.
An audience at least.


Copyright © Prince Ekpemandu | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Dream Within A Dream

A Dream Within A Dream

Fix thine eyes upon Earth's great treasures.
Morning calls of birds looking for a mate-
Winds blowing over mountains, across plains to blue seas
Jungles sweltering in heat and dangers
Wilderness teeming with ancient dreams of ghosts of time....
The heavens gazing down at all.

Waking shadows soon to be burnt by the sun;
And just beyond that lucid moment,
This world cries to be explored and walked about
Mysteries, eternal in their depth, colors and glories -
shimmering visions born of cosmic dust and time,
Can you hear that first call of youth?
Echoes returning from never ending void
And Nature proclaiming-- man thou art mine!

Churning , foaming and spitting forth life
Gardens in forests born of primeval gods-
Stones singing hymns in their silence,
Meadows spreading across broad plains into realms anew
Can you see, Nature and its magnificence?
Herds, by the thousands, rampaging into future time
Forests sheltering billions of birds, insects and bright trees
Rains plunging down to soak virgin soils,
And eternal cycles renewed within Nature's overarching plan.

Ghosts of time, returning to laugh, dance and watch!
Harbors welcoming incoming ships and cargo
Cities crying to be filled with bustling throngs!
Homes with welcoming fires fighting Winter's wrath
Snows that paint earth, land and sky....
Rivers and streams on winding never ending quests
Lakes glimmering under moon and star lights
Creatures moving about water and back to solid land
And mankind-- deep beneath earth, scavenging for more treasure!
And mankind, planted beneath earth to decay.....

R.J. Lindley,
March 22nd, 1977

Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2017

Details | Prose Poetry |

Snowy Day

Knee deep in snow I walk.
 Listening to the wind 
In the trees, flying 
snow everywhere. 
 Silent the sound. 
Just the rustling 
 of tree limbs flying snow.

 I walk through the forest 
cleansing my my mind. 
Squirrels in the trees 
chattering at my presence. 
 Crows in the sky, 
not a cloud In the scene. 

Further I walk,
 heading for the pond. 
 A red Fox crosses my path.

Virgin snow I plow through.
 I float away in the world that I'm in. 

The pond now in sight 
I ponder the scene. 
 Wind whipping the snow 
across the pond,
huge snow monsters 
I can see.

 Stepping onto the ice 
 sounds can be heard.
 I step back, 
deciding a better path 
I need find.

 I return home 
to the sounds of the day,
 cold and refreshed. 
Sitting by the fire, 
hot chocoholic In hand. 
 Reflecting and smiling 
 at my time in the woods.

Copyright © JG Collins | Year Posted 2017

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Power of Words

Spilling verses 
as if they were a life line
Thinly hanging on
In air
Hoping they go
If not Preaching
A truth
To life
Giving meaning to
Always becoming a path
To our feet
Defying mere physics
Like walking on water.

Inking my way past
Adversity, while attempting to hold onto
Sanity in the midst of human travesty
Man made catastrophes by ego's

Let it be so and so
Traveling words
More thunderous
Than dreams do allow
Spilling soul and fire
Flaming paths of
Prayer into the
Burning insence
Catching the nostrils
Of God Himself or Herself
Raising attention to
Angels and Demons
Hear I am
Here we are
Racing time, in attempts
To move mountains from here to there
On Ledges where
Death no longer Stands, 
But stanza and sonnet command
Life is Eternal from mouth to
Affirming Our Generation
As a Genesis without Nemesis.

Reflecting in the
Mirror dimly is
 a word
The world has known
Thee a time or two
Casting spells
In rhyme and form
Where logos fluidly
And fluently
Speaks to Universe
And Word, Faithfully
Becomes Will
9x's and
The poet's verses
Declare projected

Thus the word is done
From soul
With the power
Of Divine Expectations
Mystical ,but clear to
Listening Ears
Piercing bone and marrow
Awakening what was once feeble
In many.

May we now speak
With the tongues of Gods
Into unknown tomorrows
Beautiful Order Words
Into a world filled
With The Hope of Love
A solid fruition
Human Ascension
Into never ending Light
As plain as sight beyond sight.

Kevin Guru©2017
The Power of Words

Copyright © Kevin Mitchell | Year Posted 2017

Details | Prose Poetry |

Gertrude -- Gertie -- Gertrude Stein

-- Re:  Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, Rue de Fleurus #27, Paris --

What would Gertrude.What Gertrude.What, Gertie?Have thought.Have thought what
thought?Thought thought driving,forward,remorselessly.Remorseless Remorse?Forward.Never reverse;no reverse.No.No remorse.Remorseless,spurning reverse,seated.High!Seated high in Auntie.Then in Godiva seated. Looming.Enormous.
Looming enormous.Unsinister presence. Certain presence.Definite.Definitely not sinister.  Positively looming;enormous in brown.Brown,in brown corduroy,driving Paris.
In Paris,through Paris.Looming high in Paris in Godiva.With Alice, quiet beside her.
Quiet; always, Alice.Alice always. And zipping, about -- coming to Rue de Fleurus 27.
Zipping to Rue de Fleurus.To 27. And Alice so able.Able Alice, each a.m. transcribing.Able Alice typing.Automatic Gertrude.Typing Gertrude.Great Gertrude.GeniusGertrude.Talking Gertrude.Genius talking.Great brown Gertrude;Gertie to Alice.
Absorbing, talking, buying art --- buying Matisse.Absorbing Matisse.Showing Matisse.Banishing Matisse.Selling Matisse,collecting Picasso.Great Gertrude -- genius Gertrude at court, holding court at Rue de Fleurus 27.And Leo.Gone Leo.No Leo at Rue de
Fleurus.Not at 27 After Leo, after Mr. Stein, after brother Leo.But there was Alice.Alice
was there Among Braques.And Cezanne.(Not Matisse.)No longer Matisse, but Picasso.And Picassos, Picassos, Picassos!And Alice; alongside, was Alice.Next to, was Alice.Alice
next Gertrude,Gertie, G. --- Gertrude, Miss Stein. Genius Gertrude Stein Quiet Alice
always.And a great Gertrude.A great brown Gertrude.A leviathan. A passing ship; a
great leviathan.Gertie, a genius.A hugeness.A shibboleth.But to Alice, just Gertie.

Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |


Tickets are not easy to get at the Royal Circle. 
A lady does not wish to get a seat by currying favor; 
the flavor will eventually turn rancid and ruin her day. 
The scent of expensive perfume pervades the warm air.
A packed house of coiffed women in evening frown
and men who wear success like a badge; she is here alone 

in full regalia: pinned-up auburn hair, porcelain skin 
in a buttoned-up dress.  White opera gloves, her nod to 
convention.  Several eyebrows raise when she comes 
unescorted. There is not much legroom and it cramps her style, 
yet, she bears the discomfort one hundred feet above the ground. 
She doesn’t get to see clearly the emotions on the actor’s face. 

The rest of humanity looks like buzzing bees and butterflies 
hiding gossiping lips on pale faces behind colorful fluttering fans. 
She assumes the look; men have no monopoly on the stoic face. 
An evening out unescorted teaches her the world will always 
judge not just the melodrama she is watching onstage. 
There is more to life than The Salon; a woman has a choice. 

After:  Theater by Mary Cassatte 1879

For Debbie Guzzi's Ten Pictures, Ten Poems, Ten Days - Painting 6 
Kim Patrice Nunez
13 January 2016

* Published by Ekphrastic: Writing and Art on Art and Writing

Copyright © KP Nunez | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

the Rain

  The Rain tried to find its way into the very depth of the souls, sneering at the gloomy faces of people who were walking through water. Unexpectedly a sudden clear laugh of a boy who jumped into a puddle mocked all His aspirations. 

  With an increased force the Rain turned into a wall of water pushing the pedestrians into the open doors of the shops, blocking the traffic and confusing the air controllers at an airport nearby. 

  Seizing for a moment almost absolute power over the world, the Rain suddenly felt bored and first burst out into numerous crossing lines, then calmed down and throwing the last blast of wind with water drops at the running boy, He sighed in despair and having banged few open windows He disappeared, staying for a moment in thick eye-lashes of a girl who was adjusting her make up.

Copyright © Serge Belinsky | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |


A noble story one that ought to be our good host laughed and swore the games begun. Come match the knights tale if you can sir monk. To bellow arms and blood and bones he swore. A noble one I'll pay off the knights tale lets do this right. You tell yours by and by either I'll speak or go on my own way. Everyone listen but first i will propound that i am drunk i know it by my sound. For I'll tell a golden legend and a lie. Forget your ignorant drunken bawdiness it is a sin and great foolishness. Tell us of other things you'll find to lack i see you are angry with my tale but why. cuz you are a fool your head is overpowered by the wine. If you are not enjoying yourselves then cut off my head but as i drink my wine and ale. Whoever won't accept what i decide will pay for everything we spend along the ride. So hold up your hand if you accept my speech reflect a little and don't hold me to blame if you choose wrong don't lay it on my head. And both of them had bawdy tales to tell theirs no sense making earnest out of game.

Copyright © craig schaber | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |

Okay so just to remind you

Okay so just to remind you, you are absolutely amazing. You make my day every day. I have a smile on my face constantly. You are the first thing I think about when I wake up & the last thing I think about before I go to sleep. I’m defiantly lucky to have such an incredible girlfriend like you. You are the biggest sweetheart, ever. I adore everything about you. I will do everything in my power to keep you in my life. I want you & only you. You’re beautiful inside & out. I fall more & more for you every day. & I’m so in love with your voice, it’s the cutest thing ever! Stay sweet baby. You’re one in a million.

Copyright © craig schaber | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

school house rock

rosie r red
a girls name,who was wacked in the head
a.violets r blue
she was a girl too
they liked each other and didnt know what to do
because somebody used their line in a poetry rhyme
it gets hit all the time
they just dont know what to do
if you like me then i like you

Copyright © chris bowen | Year Posted 2008

Details | Prose Poetry |

Christmas 2005 in Iraq with MiTT 2-2-2

One or two of us
Were home on leave;
For the rest of us,
Christmas came by mail.

Our callsign: Gunslingers.
Our Military Transition Team
Was embedded with 
The "Triple Deuce" Iraqi Infantry,

For a year our home
Was LSA Diamondback
Mosul, Nineveh province,
In northern Iraq

A Team member's wife
Gave us all Santa hats.
I have an old photo
Of us standing on top
Of an old Iraqi bunker,
Bearing pistols, rifles,
And those Santa hats.

My wife sent a small
Plastic Christmas tree,
Which was decorated 
In the Gunslingers' office.

My mom sent a warm quilt.
When you're acclimatized
To wearing battle armor
In the high 90s and 100s,
80-something feels cold!

I remember the nights--
Dark, but full of stars,
With Orion's belt
On the horizon.

Soldiers made bonfires
In the oddest places:
By a concrete shelter,
Or in classified burn pits.

Once exiting my office,
I saw a fire in the sky.
Soldiers were on top of a bunker
Drinking near-beer, singing.

Another night, I stood 
Just outside of the light
Looking at some troops,
And the chiaroscuro image.

I went back to my "choo",
And penciled the scene.
To complete the masterpiece,
I inserted myself
Roasting marshmallos.

I went back to visit them,
Showed them the drawing,
Then completed the picture
By searing a marshmallow.

Christmas was what we made of it.

Copyright © Mark J. Halliday | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Flautist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ THE FLAUTIST  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 THE FLAUTIST fluently flaunted her flute- Music flew faultlessly through the airwaves, flying fluidly above the noise of the blustering city                                                    
THE flautist created a calm fragrance, who's flavor of creativity fell-well onto your soul creating a soul stirring calmness across the city. 
She played her flute clean into the night vehemently, over the feverish chaos – 
And the people in the park and in the city could hear clearly as they walked in rhythmic tunes/ She flaunted her music like sweet low hanging fruit, Her music dangled beautiful and singly. She alone, Solo-ed notes of delightful serenity-  
  The flautist moved the masses to a state of bliss; Like free kisses flying in the wind landing on ears conquering and engaging spirits, conquering pandemonium with her flute, she blew her flute... SHE BLEW HER FLUTE, and we marched and listened obediently. She blew her flute and we marched magnificently to her concert.

Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

In Fall

In fall, Boomer Halloweens produce orange and black memories.
     Will I ever outgrow treat-laden bags and glowing pumpkins? 
Van Gogh's flaming hand draws crowds in the Blue Ridge;
     he paints the trees, but God does the skies.
The slanting sunlight creeps up my back, 
     its lengthening rays whispering “snow.”
Manic animals off their meds gather food.
     Stashes forgotten, they must follow winter's diet.
Sleep comes early to me now, in fall.

Copyright © Mary Oliver Rotman | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Awakening

It began as the second decade of the 21 Century entered middle age, an underlying sense of unease, change. New technology increasingly altering perceptions.
Reality not seeming so sure. Our five senses, were they enough? Were they telling us the whole story, or was most of it hidden from our perceptions? Increasingly questions were being asked. Are we alone? Do we live in a computer simulation, a Matrix? Is there a Multiverse? Parallel dimensions? Quantum mechanics suggested the underlying substructure of reality was just probabilities.
What does that even mean? Are we even bright enough to ask the right questions?String theory, M theory, the theory of everything! What! The Singularity is near, post humanism, immortality. Will people learn to live together or tear each other apart? Are we on the cusp of a golden age or a nightmare? Utopia or dystopia?
Will we ever know the truth?
Yet to be determined

Copyright © JG Collins | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

bring back blacksmiths

wists,kittle bit.see it.we writ the fit humble bit.

Copyright © chris bowen | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry |

White Dot

                                                  Frog playing violin
                                             Perforated Ceiling Washer
                                           White Dot Wassily Kandinsky

                                            ©Rajat Kanti Chakrabarty
                                                 16 December 2014

Notes:White Dot was painted in 1923 while Kandinsky was a professor at the Bauhaus. He combined various shades of white which are thought to imply possibilities in life and bold curving shapes of black which portray the antithesis, death. Interspersed are varying shades of red, blue and yellow. 

The circle was the perfect shape to Kandinsky and he felt it was "the synthesis of the greatest oppositions". He believed it led to the 4th dimension and was seen throughout many of his works of art during this period. The black circle with the white dot draws the viewer's eye to the upper right of the canvas with an intensity that is broken by the "squiggled" black line that bisects the canvas on the diagonal. The triangles as well as other shapes appear throughout the piece broken by diagonal black lines. Not only do layered planes of color give this two-dimensional painting depth but tonal variations of color on a given shape lends a three dimensional feel as well. 

Kandinsky's connection to music is felt as the riot of colors and various shapes can be compared to the arrangement of musical notes. The combination of angles and curved lines as well as bold color and shaded forms imbue the painting with energy and one could expect to hear a symphony resonating off the canvas.

Copyright © RAJAT KANTI CHAKRABARTY | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

PleasureThe melody gradually filters

The melody gradually filters
Through my being 
Filling my soul with joy
I go with it savouring, anticipating
It’s genius – no other thoughts enter
Just floating with the melody
Surprised by some discords they startle me
Prepare me for the majesty of sound to come

Copyright © Liz Walsh | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry |


First a simple lunch –
soup, salad, rolls and dessert
(and wine if we choose).
Then the book.*
We become critics when we read.
That's half the fun of it.
The other half is the pleasure of the word.
Prose can be poetry.

Our preferences are as diverse as our personalities.
What I like, you don't, and vice versa.
No book appeals to everyone,
just as no work of art is universally appreciated.	

This particular book drew various reactions –
first "enjoyment" and then disappointment.
We agreed that the images were vivid
and the metaphors enlightening,	
but the story dragged a bit.

The tragedy's resolution, 
arriving at the tale's end, was anticlimactic .
Why had the author waited so long
to get the accused off the hook.

The ample evidence could have been revealed sooner, much sooner,
saving us from suffering endless descriptive passages.	
Clearly, dangling was the writer's intent.
No one appreciated being dangled.

We wanted the case resolved posthaste,
with fewer stalling tactics.
"Get on with it,"
seemed the general opinion.

Critics should be aware 
(alas, we sometimes are not),	
criticism is infinitely easier than creation.
Creation is inspiration 
mixed with plain hard work.

Authors, like all artists,
have their way with us.		
We're simply along for the ride. 
As critics we agreed –
a fine journey: long and well worth it.  

"Snow Falling on Cedars" by David Guterson

Copyright © Gay Stuntzner | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Close enough

Closer to the clouds 
Soaring through the soft misty flocks of vapour
Touching the overstretched never ending horizons
Closer to the clouds
Reaching for the elusive galaxy scattered with stars

Outside my window, birds perched on window panes
Breathing the hopes of life
Burying their worries, letting them go
Soaring away the pains of yesterday
The distance reassures me of the longer road I have
Waiting working of what might come
Relieving the old alleys
Streets that left me hanging, roaming 
Stranded with loneliness

Break from the fast pace of life
Dive into total surrender
Break from our shallow life filled with plans
The never ending ambitious dreams
Capturing each moment, not giving any a miss

The small sentiments
The simple notions
The innocent thoughts 
And the crazy bedlams
Thrive, we will.

Copyright © Eli Mahirah | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

CHANGED MY Underwear,------- and My Name

change my name 
fairly often, I suppose

change my clothes 
area codes
and Imma' damn gypsy, ya' see

keep it fresh ta' death
speck of blood
ketchup on my attire

got more rhymes 
than I got grey hairs
that's an effing lot
because i got my share

digg a 
hot-fire piece of passionate verse
those are 
rare to find

if  only poets would 
unleash the fury 
instead of 
holding back
what's really 
on their mind...

I must say...
the library, 
the internet, 
the etc. etc...
would be a less stinky place...
AND, maybe 
I'd keep my name, and sever ties with 
underwear's elastic,
and just go 
APE-Spit Spastic!~

Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

Paint the Permanent

I stand before the canvas of my life
with the arsenal of brushes I've been armed with
choosing the paints with which I'll work

My will is to paint the permanent
No watercolors that can wash
My strokes will stain the canvas true

In my art studio my brushes fire
Salvos of sultry reds
Volleys of vivacious violets

But I don't always paint alone
Others there are that share the studio
And though our canvases won't always hang together
A small army of artists are we

Who paint our lives with care
For all the world to see
The hues we use only we may choose
Brazen and bold, subtle, or stark
Soldiers of our arts
Aiming and striking and painting our hearts out
Until we die
And go to the Gallery

But as for me
I stand before the canvas of my life
And the brush is in my hand

Copyright © Brandi Elizabeth Brown | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |


 I’m better because,
 I’m positive
 I build the right frame of mind
 I dream big
 I’m a believer
 I’m benevolent
 I’m bold

 I’m like the rainbow.

There are
no sinking feelings
 or retrogresses

Copyright © JAMES B. MORRIS JR | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

Oprah Winfrey

The day broke peacefully in Kosciusko, Mississippi
The morning came with gladness over the city
Flowers smile at the morning breeze refreshing
Her birth did not attract television attention
She came in disguise with a local identity
January 29, 1954, planet earth recorded her name
But history had no intention of identifying with her

She wore handmade potatoes dresses
She was mocked amongst her peers
She tasted her tears at an early age
She struggled to defeat the battles hindering her future
She mounted on the wings of a university scholarship
Landed at Tennessee State University
Then, history began to notice something peculiar about Oprah

Speech and performing arts is the vehicle
She drove to get at her high places
She ignored all the bus stops along the highway of life
She appreciate her grandma’s concrete foundation
She acknowledge her father disciplinary impact
She boarded success flight with assurance
And history began to trace her everywhere

She is the world most philanthropic celebrity
She established Oprah Angel Network for the underprivileged
She established Oprah Winfrey leadership Academic 
She is the first to receive the Bob Hope award
She is the world most influential woman
And history welcomes her in his book 

She settled with the Oprah Winfrey show
Her impact is felt all over the world
She has the right words for every situation
She ask the right questions to expose the whole truth
She embraces the hottest stories in the world
She always satisfy the desires of her viewers
History announces her sun that keep shinning on every color and every generation

Copyright © Olivia Nimley | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

The BegInDing

(Door bell rings)
 The damn dog barks and a voice is heard. Arms stretch, forming a letter Y. A head shakes. Dimples become this smooth cheek; lips form a letter O... Exhaled respiration sighs; the break of yawn verifies new horizons; official. Time refers to the handbook of rules. Rip threw page after page; crumpled up waste basket balls rim out off yawning lips. Illusive sleep hysteria dreams, that flicker on and off stroboscopic memories. Unconscious thoughts fill in gaps with a given assumption. Personal stead-fast conviction driving miss daisy; otherwise terrified by reverse psychological roles. Hole punched tickets admit one day: beginning with a letter D; memory recalls it ending with a big Y... Negative voices echo through lightless minds; laid flat in a bed between soiled linings. Poor children are told how; begging to find out why. Sit down, shut up, do what they tell you to do; innocent belief. Criminals will steal their hope; they will turn around and become them. Again and again this pattern seams stitched into fabricated existence. Rock bands form guitar heroes; creating descriptive music that we listen too. Lyrically guided by spoken words: this music takes us into journeys and out of mind. We release our inhibitions; momentarily vulnerable. At times we stay up all night; carrying one day into another. Two days still end with the same letter Y. Reality then gets associated with a drag; that's just life... Is it really though? How does this make you feel? Why is life as such? Apparently nothing changes if nothing changes; whatever that means... Nothing is what nobody does. Who is nobody? Nobody isn't even a person so... It is an it? It is a vaguely indicator word. Open ended like our speech tendency; along it goes on... What do you think is closer from truth? Closer to what and where is its origination? No-bodies language sighs lettered lips O and right arms wonder Y this really is... Left arms think nobody's looking and carry(s) on with, that's life... Somebody knows nobody.  Both of you know. Some... No... Any... Everybody includes anybody, but somebody overlooks nobody. Nobody's look like somebody in mirror’s image. You become nobody when you wear somebody's look. Anybody can change the outlook of everybody. Nobody has this ability... That's a matter of fact because nobody doesn't even exist. Everybody is somebody and this can be anybody; even you. (Door bell rings)  Two hands make two fists that rub two eyes. A new yawn gathers what is left to be salvaged of puzzled peace. Yesterday’s left over memory forgot its closure. Carried on with a letter Y; personal resolve unsettled by such a disregarded end. Time remains constant; utterly unbiased. How can I make the most out of my limited time? What have the messages of my instructors truly been intending? Make your time count rather than count all your time. End each day with clean linings free from soiled letter Y. Begin each new venture following a righteous close. It's not actually a fresh start if begun prior to such (a) just ending... Fret not for the dog is merely communicating to the best of its ability; most likely just saying hello. It is what it is but what may that be? Let it be but as simple as it truly is intended to be... Anything and everything comes to an eventual end. Followed by an unbiased time shaped beginning. Be somebody! Someone who doesn't know how to be nobody anymore. Count yourself in; everybody's included. Horizons scarlet colored reality sends its hopeful rays to signal the beginning. Only to use the same sign for the end. Embrace each exceptional end and embark new beginnings with hope filled wide eyes. Close the door on yesterday and open up for today.      (Door bell rings)                          The BegInDing--   Ironic Zinc  10-10-15

Copyright © Ir0nic ZiNk | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

Ebony and Ivory

She hides her heart behind misleading eyes, layered with mahogany colored armor & a cloak of insecurities, walking as the proud figure of beauty when all she really wants... is to be accepted. She is, n open book of words unread, full of dread she wished she could express but is too afraid and borders herself away from the world around her. With pearls as her microphone head, lines of poetry as its staff & a background full of instrumented blasphemed romance, attached to an undercoating of Verde. She is, misunderstood and outspoken.. &she reminds me so much of myself. The well anticipated J. Cole concert we'd all been waiting for. She is, the reincarnation of musical masterpieces played through nimble vocal cords, & she's capable of so much more.. than she'll ever truly know..

Copyright © William Smalls | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |

First Black President of America

The sun is rising on the wings of history
The emergence of a hero in the black race
His star glitters in the sky
His vision strong in faith

He ignored storms others encountered
He faced challenges ahead of him
He focused on his target with determination
He appreciates the coat of many colors his grandma made for him

He wears crown of integrity
His policies not compromised
Out of him flow words of intelligence
O’ his heart after perfection

He is an agent of change
He is an agent of transformation
He is an agent of unity
He is an agent of progress

What a historic presidency to remember in America 
The dreams of many ancestors becomes a reality
Tears of every color has embrace an angel
O’ what a life time bridge he completed

He love America from the depth of his heart 
He vow to serve his country for a change
He hears the trumpet call his name 

Copyright © Olivia Nimley | Year Posted 2013