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Prose Poetry Brother Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Brother

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

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Details | Prose Poetry |

Galaxies Came Between

He'd be typing away on his desk
with blueprints for the next big thing,
While I'd be staring off into the azure sky
appreciating the "insignificant" things

You really are a genius
in your field of technicalities,
with which you thoroughly water;
A wife, a place of your own,
and a destination in mind


You'll find me in the corner
(no not a corner... think rounded edges,
much more safe)
Half past ten, still in bed,
with rolls of cash in a Ziploc bed
(I'm not dealing and I'm sorry if I gave you that
impression... more likely
just a descendant of Scrooge)

Your perfectly organized life
(my just screw it attitude)
Well I must say you are on your way,
but where exactly too?

I solemnly wish
we had, but one thing
in common, dearest brother,
Even with the knowledge
that I wrote this for you
I'm sure deep down
you'd think this quite sappy

And being the person that I am
I'd immediately think of tree metaphors
(now what what rhymes with cedar?)

And being the person you are
you'd probably just go about your day
wondering about the latest Apple product

You live next door
and yet somehow
galaxies came between us,
Practical you gathered sticks and stones
for your shelter here on Earth

(I was too busy daydreaming
on Mars)

From the moment I opened my eyes
and peaked my little head out
from the pool in the backyard,
we were brothers, through and through

... so why do I have this nagging urge
to shake your hand and ask

"Have we met?"

Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

My Primary Emotion

             ~ My Primary Emotion~

Three days ago I decided to become heartless by
eliminating my Spirit and Soul I could not take
the agony anymore.

I urged my lawyer to come, he looked at me and 
asked, what is wrong? Gazing at him said, 
I don't regret committing that felony against them 
I need to be punished lets go to court. 

Having no reaction, looking disoriented he 
opened the door walked me to his car & drove 
to court.
Standing opposite the judge I stared at 
him bluntly, he was reviewing my report 
looked at me ushered to sit in the box 
to be persecuted.

The defense lawyer aware of my crimes 
seemed intrigued and asked, madam 
what caused you to retaliate against your 
Spirit & Soul?.

I needed to disrupt their thoughts which 
turned against me, the chaos in my brain 
became unbearable, exhausted by their 
discussions aggravated my strength 
weakened me, my whole body was 
antagonizing, intentionally forcing my 
thoughts to become heartless, merciless
when I attacked them.

Both profited from my kindness my 
patience, my healing was not responding,
needing some peace to pray for a miracle
as my young brother today is near death, 
cancer of the lungs, he`s getting colder by 
the minute, not eating, not socializing, alone, 
my tears were overflowing beyond control,
when I heard a friendly whisper coming from 
my Heart crying, enough is enough your thoughts 
need to stop to allow yourself recognize wrath is 
unbearable, your sorrow is taking you nowhere, 
wait for the diagnosis.

Out of compassion the judge set me free
my kindness befriended my Spirit & Soul
together we went back home. Waiting. 

I was surrounded by them knowing
ahead of me will be the longest night 
I will ever experience in years, because 
I was determined to stay awake 
for that call.

The echo of the ringer came louder than usual
we heard this message! 
Minutes ago he was wide awake
Minutes ago his heart tore him away
minutes ago his casket was carried astray
minutes ago underground he will lay.
Minutes ago I wished him an endless
goodbye with a sigh.

My friends held me step by step walked
me to bed covered me up stayed until I had 
no more tears to shed. 
Those were my emotions for today. Grieving
over the loss of my young brother. Sadness.

Therese Bacha
Contest of Dan Williams. Primary Emotion Today..

Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Lonely Grave


I stood by your graveside this cold winters day.

A heart broken with sorrow that won’t go away.

I called out your name and shed many a tear.

And hoped in my heart that you would appear.


God took you from us that fine sunny morning.

Our lives now shattered without any warning.

Your work here on earth has finished this year.

Your books and teachings you spread  far and near.


It was a pleasure to know you for sixty odd years.

And when my time comes I will have no fears.

You will be waiting to greet me as oft times before.

When I call to your house and knock on the door.


Each night when I lay my head down to sleep.

I will ask the lord your soul to keep.

And if you find any time away from your books.

Look kindly on me as I walk in those woods.

Copyright © Patrick Ronan | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Kiss of Honor, a Memorial Day Tribute

Frantic searching for my sanity as the odor of explosives and burning flesh assault my soul.  Longing for the boredom of stuffy barracks my eyes my friends constantly search for your return I hide all but fear.

We know the death of friends but in our life embrace we conceal all that is deferred for recollection in our final days.  For now bravado, lots of scotch, and a Thai stick sets the pattern for our only security.

Lost are the joys of spirit we envisioned as children; gone is the clarity and respect for lives easily expended in the most secret of a nation’s honor, generalities served in a bitter beer.

I know you friend, your dreams your plans you say them softly in your sleep.  Our  prayers to will keep you safe.

We dare to plan in-country encouraged by being too short not to let our minds drift at the possibilities.  

We hope that God is truly on our side and confess only in our eyes the sins we speak to no one.

The blood of those we do not know anoints the heads of those we do and love for now, until our final taps brings us home.  

With this kiss of honor I embrace what remains of you my friend and your courage.  I curse your departure and salute the honor of our time together.

Copyright © Violetta Antonia Sorcini | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |


Bhai Phonta is a Bengali Hindu festival, usually celebrated two days after the Kali Puja or Sakti Puja where the sisters mark the foreheads of their brothers with sandalwood paste and pray for their safety, well being and success. 
According to Rig Veda, Yama and Yamuna(or Yami) were twins (brother and sister) born to Surya. In their earthly incarnations, Yamuna(Yami) once longed to see her brother and invited Yama to her house. When Yama, the god of death visited his sister, his sister prayed for his well being.
However, according to folklorist and social historians, due to various societal changes with the advent of agriculture, the sisters began to pray for their brothers' safety, well being, and success. The Bhai Phonta festival is rooted in that social practice.According to the Bengali Hindu lunar calendar, the festival is celebrated on the second day of the Shukla paksha of the month of Kartik ( Oct-Nov) in late autumn. Sometimes it is also celebrated on the first day of the Shukla paksha.
The sister puts a mark of sandalwood paste mixed with curd on her brother's forehead with her left hand little finger thrice, while reciting a traditional rhyme:

"I dot my bother's forehead
Let there be thorns before the door of Yama, the death
My brother lives long, for ages
And be dotted by his sister
Let my bother be happy
Let my bother be safe
Let my brother be rich
Let my brother be pious
O Lord, make my brother divine
O Lord , make his life sweet"

The sister then offers sweet to her brother. Brother touches her feet if she is elder and gives blessings if sister is younger. The gifts are exchanged. The ritual ends with feast and special sweets as desserts.

The brother-sister relationship is considered one of the most sacred relationships in Hindu Culture. From ancient times down to the present day there are stories a legion where a bother sacrifices his life in the battlefield to defend honour of his sister.
We have observed this ritual today, 25th October. My sisters came and dotted me. They prayed for my well-being and health.

NOTE: On a special spot of forehead. The spot is at the root of the nose and between the eyebrows. In Yoga tradition it is called "Kutastha"" Kutastha Chaitanya". They are synonymous to Christ Consciousness. We feel the presence of Lord here first. Hence the ritual of Bhai Phonta is closely related to Yoga , the way of life.

(c) rajat kanti chakrabarty 25/10/2014

Copyright © RAJAT KANTI CHAKRABARTY | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

Missing the Man in the Hat

It was early one morning, when you arrived..
You entered the restaurant and I noticed your stride..
Your manner of dress was quite elegant.. and ..
It appeared you were having breakfast...
With a very important guest..
Seated at the table, and I couldn’t help but notice,
The strange thing you did , when you removed from your purse..  
An old and tattered faded hat..
You took it lovingly in your hands and..
Proceeded to give it a kiss..
As you placed it across from where you sat...
I knew it belonged to someone you missed..
Then you did something strange...
You did a smile and a wink.. 
Poured two cups and I began to think....
Perhaps the car was being parked,
And soon your friend would join you..
As I sat and watched you seemed to be...
Engrossed in a conversation...
The twinkle in your eyes and the smile on your face..
Sent the message you were in a happy place...
Then you got out of your chair...and hugged the air..
And left the same way you came...but ..
I heard you say as you walked away..
Same time..same place next year ?

Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

My brother's hand

My brother’s hand regarded not my words for, they go unheard, as the silence grows my brother’s hand clinches cold and my last words fall to the ground pooling, congealing into an unsatisfied thirst. The devils on horseback are led to the water, but never drinking, as the blackened house lies in ruin. I wonder about the tree in the forest and the forest without ears to hear and the tree never seen, but alas and alas every man. How does a machete make more noise and fire be heard on the other side of the world? It may have been bearable, but I am not alone and I know their words will never be heard for they are in my brother’s hand. 11/5/2014

Copyright © John Beam | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Winter Poem

Two men meet on the street corner by the park,
the day's light just beginning to decline into evening.
Their beards hang like icicles; the men are very old,
but still with sparkling eyes and smiles.
A few months ago they played chess in the park,
on the tables now covered with snow flakes,
surrounded by drifts and the eddies of the wind.

One is stooped and bent, the other stands yet straight,
though he too must bend as they embrace, the hug of brothers,
the brotherhood closer than what the rest of the world can ever know.
The city stops, the noise of traffic falls away to nothing.

One of the men has a Polish name, the other is Hungarian.
One has mementos of his wife,
found after her death in what used to be their house,
a thin gold necklace and a silver earring.
The other has nothing, because nothing survived.

It's been a cold winter, but not so cold as the one 73 years ago.
No winter could be as cold as when they lost their wives,
when they were made to work with spades in the hard ground,
when they got their first and only tattoos.

There used to be many more of them that came to the park.
Now, there are only these two.
Next year there will be only one.

December 4, 2016
For Shadow Hamilton's contest - 'A Winter Poem'

Copyright © Doug Vinson | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

Life is Like Baseball final post

Focus means everything!!!....  

                              Effort.                            Courage.       


In times of our lives we strike out but it is a team sport.    

Think about when you hit that home run!!!!!!!   

It really doesn`t matter at that MOMENT who was there and who wasn`t.

Who applauded and who didn`t.      


Moments are all we have, when "time" itself was calculated by the stars and man; 
therefore i fail to believe it truly exists.   


Love and The Fight For Survival  continues on............

(Let's play ball!!!!!!!!~incidently my all time favorite sport to play, watch, and 
burn 'em, every chance I get!) 

Spring is here!!!     WoooooooHooooo!!!

Life is just that way. 

Thanks to all for allowing me to openly express myself here at 
this soup, where there is no norm in form, it's just poetryman.
 No right, no wrong... 
Let's shake hands because it sure has been an exciting game that at times I didn't 
realize I was even playing...! 
All in all life is sweet and short. 
May you be blessed in your lives and your creatitity.

                                                   *~THE END~*


Copyright © Lucinda Bulger | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |


Personally, we clash because we want to be different yet, this only brings indifference. We have a chip on our shoulders as individuals. We want to be innate in which one must be the greater person. Personally, we confront each other about dumb things when it is not business structured. Our conflict becomes that of jealousy. Non-bias to gender this is, which cause differentiation. We are the people of the cosmos. Our brotherly and sisterly love is what unites us. Let us learn from each other through the structure formed and join for a greater focus. The reality of today states life is a place in time. Formed by animal and by humankind, our living determines our destinies. Strength empowers! A common cause unites! We are all God’s people. We must bond in some shape, form, or fashion. This is for certain and ascertains a more meaningful existence. Our personality clashes should not stop us as individuals. The multitude is what matters and we are in that configuration. Inasmuch, integrity integrates. Amour-proper allows us to become more diverse. A greater determination brings forth application. Therefore, we must concentrate within these thoughts. Our single-mindedness plus our constructive efforts manifests destiny. This is our world our universe. Let us not asunder. MAY OUR WILL BE DONE! _____________________________| March 08, 2014!

Copyright © Verlena S. Walker | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

Big Brother

“Big Brother”

Brother I grew up in front of your eyes
I have seen you tear in silence
You don’t have to hide your pain
For I understand
Why you can’t meet your mother’s gaze
You have been brave
Roaming the streets late at night
We prayed for your safe return 
Each time you felt the need to be alone

She broke your spirit
Made you feel less than a man
She convinced you that you were insane
She broke you down 
Isolated you from family and friends
Made you to sit and wait while she sleeps the day away
Your soft nature in her eyes a weakness
She knew how to pull your strings
And have you dance to her tune
You have endured her physical and mental abuse
Silently loosing yourself
Your business and dreams took second place
Dancing to her every tune
Waiting on her hand and foot
Withholding herself 
Whilst having affairs at work
The Great career woman
She broke you totally
Drove you over the edge
Working late nights to support her shopping sprees
Exhaustion drove you to crystal meth
Introduced by a friend
She boasting to her friends
Her raised voice your submission
Belittling and insulting you in front of your staff

You know what, Yahya
You have come a long way
Finally you have made it back
You have conquered all the hurt
Your future bright
Success in the palms of your hands
Rise above it all 
Show what you are made of
You were once a self made man
You can do it again
The family believes in you


Copyright © Shining Bright | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

The 'Happy' Porn Star

  The 'Happy' Porn Star.
Grew up in poverty, 
on a farm,deep down in the south.
With too many brothers 
and many her cousins.
She had not the time to love them all..
Except for her pet pink pig.
She had no use for a cork screw.
Most of the house looked like there's.
Not her room, 
full of lace and silk, they yurned.
She burned and burned wanting more.
She has her own pony.
Nice little pony and friends.
By the time she was grown and tall.
Every thing of value she owned.
Old gold coins and silver in a box
southern confederate money, 
yellowed with age.
She packed it all up, 
while her pony and she rode away. 

Is It Poetry 

Copyright © Poetry Is It | Year Posted 2009

Details | Prose Poetry |

Paying the Piper The Great War

A fist clenched, face muscles flexed on pinched cheeks, huge sinews appeared on his neck,
The veins in his arms were like twisted lengths of blue rope and his eyes bulged in his anger,
His brother lay face down in a rancid pool, a lifeless corpse, another name in a very long book,
Ghosts in a grey dawn, moving then disappearing, then boom as mighty cannons fire into the sky.

Turning the body over, wretched wounds had ripped his face, ripped his youth, ripped away his life,
A gray morning, the same as other mornings, cold grey twilight, but this day will never be forgotten,
The strong brave man, who had seem so much, cried uncontrollably and his hot tears fell bitterly,
He knelt in filth, to cradle his younger brother and rocked backwards and forwards, unbelieving.

Once they played on long sultry hot days and when the rain fell it refreshed scents in the warm air,
They ran through fallow fields, pretty meadows scythed clear of hay, into a fine wild flower garden,
In days where the air slumbered lazily, they climbed thick leafy masses of high, ancient oak trees,
Always watching and warning his happy little brother, never climb too high nor stand on dead wood.

Laying down and looking up into autumn skies, warm, soaring winds shaping passing fluffy clouds,
Rising early as the sun once more shines, on those brilliant days, the calmest most impressive beauty,
Watching from afar in school looking after him, chasing bullies away, enriching his early days,
Beneath these warm shimmering suns, running, over to hedgerows picking sweet ripe black berries.

But those days are gone, gone forever, replaced by fear and hate, nobody will ever be the same,
Every day staring at death's grinning sated face, trying not to be caught in its cold red eyes,
And we all know the piper must be paid on these killing fields, but his wages are far too high,
Today on this early grey morning, shadows disappearing, a young man and his brother paid in full.

Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Card Game

The Queen of Spades trumps all
In our game of hearts
And other organs
Tangled in Greek and Latinate names
Wake up, Shepherd!
The Black and the Red
Call you
Kings and Queens battle
The rules don’t allow for discarding
Draw from the deck,
Choking the progress with wheeling lights and coloured geometric shapes
Like crystals
Crystal methamphetamine to make the cards fly faster
Club the senses 
Introduce new shades, purple kush
Orange and yellow sunrise
Swirling blue and gold
Smoke goes up and enter the kaleidoscope.
Your kaleidoscope is white 
Fluorescent light
Perfect background to lay the tricks
Deal the hands
And take your pick 
Buy? Fold? Try again?
And when we’re done
We’ll pick them up, one by one
Put them in order again
And lay them away in the dark.
Sleep, Endymion.
The Queen with the black eyes is your sign
In dreams, everything is fine.

Copyright © Ashley Poort | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |


I wish you were here by my side
But a million miles away

I guess you never think of me
Or you would at least call
But I guess your just too busy with your other family

I've searched for you for so long
But I still have no clue where you might be

You will always be a part of me 
Even if you don't care

I want you to know
There is always a place in my heart for you
And that you'll always be a part of my family
I will always miss you.

Copyright © Evelyn Hayes | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

Still Swinging

After chewing shoe leather they called steak, 
in the Pencey cafeteria, 
Mal, Ackley, and I enjoyed a winter afternoon on campus, 
on the bus, and in a restaurant.
We walked across a puffy white quilt 
as students conversed, laughed, and threw snowballs.
I held my snowball until the bus driver told me to leave it outside.
We had intended to see a comedy with Cary Grant, 
but Mal and Ackley had already seen it. 
We hung out in the restaurant played pinball and ate burgers.

Arriving back at our dorms at a quarter to nine, 
Mel left for a bridge game 
and Ackley shoved his acne ridden face into my pillow 
until I told him I had a paper to write.

I couldn’t write what Stradlater wanted.
I couldn’t describe any rooms without elaborate furniture.
I couldn’t describe sporty rooms 
with trophies on dressers and pennants on walls. 
My brother Allie played baseball.
He wrote poetry on his catcher’s mitt with a green pen.
He stood in right field and recited verse from his imagination, 
in his mind.

He died from leukemia very young.
I fell into a depression, 
a garage, 
a gym with windows to punch out.
I broke my hands against our station wagon’s windows.
I cannot make a tight fist.
I curl my fingers enough to type excerpts of Allie’s poetry 
for a paper that will never be appreciated.

My red headed brother Allie, 
such a good natured kid, 
he had a good combination of extrovert and introvert, 
avoiding anger.
Sitting on his bike fifty yards away 
with his hair shining in the sun 
as I teed off, 
hoping to make a distant green and shoot under par.
Mom had scored a hole in one with him.
I still try to overcome unidentified handicaps 
on a hazardous course.
If you are intrigued by this work read and review G. D. Master’s book, “Interpretations,” free in PDF format on SmashWords.com. Enter “gd master” or “interpretations” in the search bar of SmashWords to find it.

Copyright © Graphite Drug | Year Posted 2017

Details | Prose Poetry |


you don't them
or him
you see  someone bad
looking kind of sad
do it if you can
help them stand
do it from within

Copyright © kurtis scott aka curtis futch jr | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Mom's Death

I will always recall the day
my mom died.

She was in recovery for 
congestive heart surgery.
The work itself had gone well 
but brought on massive clots 
to the lungs.

I was an hour and a half away
and when I arrived, 
Mom was talking to the doctor.
He had tears in his eyes,
apologizing for getting hopes up 
where there was no hope now.
She looked him straight in the eye
and told him that she didn’t want to die.
But, if the Lord was ready 
the doctor didn’t need to cry.
“I know you did everything in your power 
to make me well”, she said. “So don’t you feel bad, 
don’t apologize for trying to help me.  
God is the one to have the final say.
I will resist going until my absolutely final breath. 
Because, I think that is what he expects of me.  
When I know it’s time I will be with him.”
The doctor left, I don’t know if he felt better. 
Probably not. He had promised her five more years.

I stayed and talked to mom for a while, 
before my brother came back in.
“Now Bunky, you know your brothers
are not as strong as you.  
You will have to help them through this.  
That is what I know you will do.”  
I said “yes Momma,” 
no longer fighting the wetness profusely rolling down my cheeks.
“Where’s Carolyn” she said of my wife. 
“I called her and she is on the way shortly. 
She will get here as soon as she can.” 
My brother came back in 
and I went out to the doctor again.

He said her lungs were completely clogged 
and she would slowly suffocate.  
But, it would be painless because she could breathe.  
She just couldn’t process the air.
She would simply go to sleep.
And that is the way the next four hours went,
with Mom going little by little.  
She napped, 
and woke up once in a while 
to ask about my younger brother 
and his wife and my wife. 
Telling all how much she loved them. 
She slept a little longer each
time she closed her eyes
and finally the only one not 
there was my wife.  
We thought a couple of times she had passed.  
But the nurse said she just wouldn’t give up. 
She sunk so low they couldn't find a pulse
or read blood pressure. 
I don’t remember how they knew she was not gone.  
Finally just before my wife
came in they actually didn’t know 
if she was still alive.
My wife came in and Mom spoke.
“Carolyn, Carolyn", very weakly and 
they talked softly for a while and Mom died. 
She had held on beyond a readable pulse.  
Beyond blood pressure. 
To tell my wife good bye. 

Copyright © Charles Henderson | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry |

For Jamie

My cigarette was nearly out, 
and I exhaled smoke that whispered 
death in my ears. I had an itch.
 It called my hand toward my forearm, 
and I let a finger run across it’s inside.
 I could see the blood flow out of his flesh,
 tears soaked his skin, 
and it rained in my mind. 
I miss him so much, my brother of rage.
 He was a whirlwind, a torrent of a man 
that blew across this world like a storm. 
Now the only lightning he can offer are 
strikes of memories of people that loved him, 
I am one of them. 
When people saw that burly viking like creature,
 they gaped in fearful judgment. 
I pity them, he was a book with a heavy cover,
 with pages of loyalty and adventure inside.
 A true friend, 
it burns to think of the afflictions he kept
 within that made such a strong soul give in. 
I take one more breath of smoke, 
and throw the butt of that fading fire 
toward the sky and let it die. 

” I miss you.”

-James Kelley 2013, All rights reserved.

Copyright © James Kelley | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Body meet Avalanche

I was a prophet, wrapped in my mothers arms
brightest eyes that saw a darkened world
my brother was the halo figure, a golden arm for slingshots
a temper to smash his own fist against a brick wall
we wept in time with the funeral march 
as our mother was buried in front of our eyes

misgivings and mass at midnight
praying to an empty alter 
to save our grandfather, to spare him one more night
lying in bed a week later 
I awoke to his voice telling me our prayers had done no good

It's easier to blame the empty bottles for my brothers death
easier to blame the teen years than the 
push and pull of growing up an orphan
and on nights like this, more than a decade later
I can still recall that conversation when he told me 
when he closed his eyes and spoke those words, barely above a whisper
that he wouldn't be around much longer
I was thirteen and still bright eyed
he was twenty three and weathered 

I was a prophet, but even a blind man could see
the pain that was ingrained in his faintest smiles
the avalanche of emotions still hit and bury me deep
some nights i pray to let me reach safety
others I take solace in knowing that
the avalanche is holding me tight as I sleep

Copyright © K.M North | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |


What can I do? I’m helpless
Witches are stuffing my brain with straw
Pernicious thoughts raining spurious angels-
Sons of bloodsheds, their beautiful faces
Wait for a cab sailing to perdition.

My organs are atrophied as head swells
Like a big bug, spreading its wings and ejecting
Bad fumes on the inebriate city malls, and
 Levitates between yes and no
Sorry, from today, on principle, I’m your foe
Sorry, I must kill you, my chips dictate so.

I ‘m duped by Macbeth’s witches, I have
Killed Banquo on a barren heath to fulfill their
Prophesies; strange delusions release their
Sperms in my innards to fructify evil plan
To stop the future coming on the earth-face
To stop the riverflow, to stop the human grace.

 I am barren, nothing restricts me to kill
Grenades command me, bullets demand dues
Missiles fall like crackers at the wedding
I have sinned, nukes cry wolf, battalions move
I have sinned, birds lose nest, babies mother
I have to shoot the first shadow of my father
I have sinned; I have to blast my twin brother.

What can I do? I’m helpless
Girls are ravaged by squiggling worms 
Widowed Cats are seeking hearth
I have sinned, world waits a second birth.

Copyright © RAJAT KANTI CHAKRABARTY | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |


like it  or not
we're one knot
same head
our bloods all red
no matter what corlor
tell all others

Copyright © kurtis scott aka curtis futch jr | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

Scrambled Clues

Scrambled Clues…

Night has fallen
The fog settles over the land
Only in closeness
Can you see the faces
The eyes closed, windows against torrid rain
While ideas flash and beat the mind

Helplessly watching
Waiting for the escalator to reach the top
So you may step into daylight

But in daylight
The fog drifts to the water
Always a step ahead
Blinding me to the depths
Through which I am falling

Please someone
Help me
I am losing my mind
And as of yet not certain,
Even faintly aware,
  Of when night will fall again
  Bringing with it,
  The soothing rain of darkness

For my brother Gregory.

Copyright © Michael Domaracki | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

Apart From Me

Somber silly little Setter, English; painting trapped himself in the side yard whimpering, howling away wildly. 

Sunscreen-on, moseying on over, in His tenderness He offers a helping hand. Hot Summers cool vapors the blessings found  here, there to and fro leaning midst the still lulling; gentle calling of the Rains. 

Yes the Grace of God, in His joy humming, arriving just in time, and so is Patience the greater venture I suppose the eminent virtue. 

His Love always; Honest, Open... Willing already beholden... . Far beyond the wreck I make for myself and others... chains stretched bounded securing me yes, my freedom in kind stripped away from me given in the effort this provisional very prominence preceding me when in denial of these facts.     

Copyright © James Long | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

Walking through a Victorian Cemetery

Passing a cemetery gate I walked in I could see all the epitaphs chronicling deaths,
The dates were all times and seasons and there were little graves for little babies,
Daisies mark children's resting places their small hands used to make them into chains,
Other huge graves showed people struck down in the prime and evening of their lives.

As time passed the sun's last setting beams a smile on the mounds and shadows stretch,
The evening wind began to sigh among the branches of the many Yew trees very near by,
Death awaits all so we should try to understand that and look death calmly in the face,
His bony knuckles will be heard very loudly as they rattle our doors and beacon us away.

The grim reaper will be the forerunner of the next searching ordeal that is the judgment,
We look into our souls watching the compass of our lives to which way the needle trembles,
As the evening wore on I could see a lonely figure limping along jingling keys to lock up,
A tired old man in the December of his life waiting for a bony finger to show him the way.

Making my way to an inn I ordered a glass of port the gas mantles, dimmed into half light,
Thinking about my day an image of my lost brother came to mind and the pain still dug deep,
I could see him playing with toys in his room, dark shadows under his eyes still haunt me,
Maybe one day I will see the boney finger of my lost brother beaconing me to join him.

Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

What If

What If ??
By Curtis Johnson

An older brother once posed some “What If??” questions to me.
My brother is among many who pose all kinds of  “What If??”                             questions such as these:

No God; No devil
No heaven; No hell

We simply bite the dust
No final destiny for any of us

We live; and everyone dies
No hell, so no one fries

We finish the race
There’s nothing to face

The world keeps turning
People keep killing and burning

Today, we eat, drink, and be merry
Tomorrow, there’s no Mary or Jerry 

My brother says to me, “What if you give your whole life to
A God that does not exist?”
I say to my brother, “If it be true that God does not exist,
I would have lost nothing; but if it be true that God does exist,
Then you would have lost everything.”

So, my parting questions are: What if he doesn’t? What if he does?


Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Mans Man

Man’s Man

April 18, 2011
To the gay population in the world

He is quite a man
And he will make his stand
For he will always stay
In his mind his own way
To most in the world it is a sin
But to him it is his place to begin
He is not sappy
He is continually always happy
For the love he has to give
Makes his life so great to live
In life we always change things and arrange
To most in life they think we are strange
We will sit and feel the simple breeze
Knowing ??????’s heart is at ease
In this world we will not desist
For millions of others exist
We must always give them their own space
Since they will always win their race
And they exist in their own place
Which is full of God’s wonderful grace

Written for a friend of mine
Who will always be a friend
Regardless of his lifestyle
William Lewis Moore

Copyright © William Moore | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |

what fools are we

Everybody wants to live for ever
They try very hard not to die
Their activities are so disastrous
They make Mother Nature cry

We attempt to engineer longevity
And delay the inevitable
Unable to bear the burden
Of a transient existence
We set ourselves up as gods over nature

Death follows us wherever we go
Time will cause us to be forgotten
We only inhabit a few seconds
In the hour that is life
We can never outlive what we are yet to fully understand
For nature has its own agenda

Our advancement has been rapid
Our hopes have been triumphed
By our energetic abilities
We aim to conquer 
And claim dominion over all 

Our anxiety regarding our significance
Harangues our thoughts
Man categorises and type cast’s all
To understand the creator
He delves deep into the cosmos
And dissects the Supreme's intentions
He aches to know where it all began

Man understands not
The unique balance that is life
He wishes to humble all
To the throne that is his ego

Knowing does not mean understanding
We know what happens to the seed as it grows
But not why the need for a seed
Some things are best left to faith
We may only know
What we need to know

Copyright © evrod samuel | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

Tragedy---for Jon

Never has life's cruel temper dealt its deceiving hand as this day 
Lost-found in a place, living know not. 
Kinship friendship - words, verbiage to describe mortal bonds 
While those of the soul grasp bonds endless and dimensionless 
Youth is but a stage of dying 
Time cruel to its very essence. Time blows through us all as our sight through glass 
Its dark fingers paint our walls and carry us to our HOLMES 
Its cruelty is its existence. Defining agony, depriving experience 
Youth felt emotion lost through existence 
Found youth soul existence beyond comprehension 
Youth to us all? Youth has been lost but found where else 
But where time confronts us all. 

Copyright © Barrett Allen | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

My Brother

You left my brother
Came back a man
Should hear our proud father
Speak of you
How you’ve done him
And momma proud
Sister Jane and Katherine
Down the block
Never seem to have anything
But you to talk about
Oh if you only knew the loving
All the girls around here
Say you’ve missed
It’s a good bet
You’d never have left
But leave you did
Nothing can change that now
In a way it’s good to know
Exactly where you are
We need never again worry
If that old truck of yours broke down
Leaving you to walk home in the rain
It’s a good thing really
Now we can all get some sleep
Granted, not as much as you
But we will in our due time
Just want you to know
These tags of yours
Will never leave my neck
You, will never leave my heart
For no matter why you left
Or how you came back
You still are
And will always be
My brother

Copyright © Mike Hamill | Year Posted 2010