Prose Poetry Child Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Child

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Details | Prose Poetry |

Words Of Wisdom To My Child

You grow so fast, already showing glimpse of awesome creativity and transform discoveries from the industrious nature of your observations so squat at my feet and raise your attentive head up high to be equipped for this compulsory journey oh sweet creature of my seed. My hands of your molding and chastisement are already the processing engine of your refinement my strong willed mind and love soaked heart complete the stages as you hold steadfast to the train I’ve prepared for you Listen attentively as I perform this segment of my duties and lets take a tour round the routes of wisdom and gallivant the landscape of experience while I pedal your feet and smoothen your soles Seasoned flavored virtues are an armour through which life’s shots are overcomed and a colourful behaviour becomes a saviour in times of need Labor not your whole life in chasing vapour for out of vigour, flour is made from wheat, Bread from flour, but all for a time of enjoyment and satisfaction Guilty syndrome is exhibited when a person answers unasked questions and don’t force out jokes from your head or else people will think your sense of humor is on a life support Sunset is no accuse for the clock to stop running ad infinitum thus, an excuse is like a punctured umbrella it’ll still not stop the invasion of raindrops Your natural desires are borderless, but your ability to strongly control them is what makes you distinct from other species in the animal kingdom Love has no prefix, suffix or adjective it is what it is and as powerful as causing natural instincts to be abdicated in favour of kindness just for the carnivore to embrace abstinence. He who begins a tale becomes its reference don’t say what you cannot defend in court rumour is a bad odour which spreads beyond the neighbourhood and puts a noisy siren on your personality Bad companionship will lead you to the garbage and corrupt friends will join others to marvel at the immortality of your adopted stupidity Wash your face every morning with these words and take your every meal with these lines then would they be spices to which your life is preserved.

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Child's Peace

Tell me of your peace. 
Let it tell your story now
Of trials and tribulations, a tale not of dreams
Weary from a journey of self-discovery
My child, know the comfort in your peace
You feel hope in this familiar place 
As it gently sloughs the pain away 
Tell me of your peace 
In which we all are blessed and free
Search throughout your soul sweet child
Peer not within your cluttered mind 
Look out to rest your tired eyes but do not let them see
Solace found strewn upon daily thoughts is fleeting at it's best
Lasting merely moments, in untouched souls a true peace 
Oh yes! You'll know when you arrive but only you will know 
The world will melt away as a candle left under the blazing sun
Away away, until you feel home again, an unguided familiar scene
An innocence once lost is restored, all sins suddenly forgiven
Soaking this in with relucant ease, 
Breathe it deep with a slow release
Take it in, delight in details you discover
Be calm here child, please have no fear, I am here 
You are safe in this place of yours, no hurt no tears
We share not the same peace, no no
Unique to each of us, yet stranger to none
Trust in more than what you see, know beauty is within reach
We share this unspoken bond of freedom from ourselves
Please young one, listen closer now 
I say, leave it all behind you love, it will only weigh you down
Cleanse yourself of careless words and careful lies 
I know you're weary, let go of all you carry
Don't be afraid, here you are burden free 
Trust in you, blessed one, it's easier than you believe
Sweet child, tell me now if you see
Peace resting deep within 
Waiting for you
For you to let it be

Copyright © Gabrielle Charisse | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

My God on Earth: My Mother

A heart that cries more than me 
in my pain. 
Whose congenial and benign teachings 
make me sane. 
A warm touch that dispels from me 
the gales of worry. 
Whose proximity ensures me that I'm 
protected by her under furry. 
A helping hand that always hold me 
whenever I'm about to lose. 
& my first teacher who makes me to 
distinguish between donts' and dos'. 
A voice and nothing more, an Angel 
who is entirely mine just after my birth. 
And she is none other but 'My Mother', 
The God on Earth. 
Although to define her in words is 
beyond my skill. 
Nevertheless I can say that her pace in 
my life, none can fill. 
She is the one who needs not a single 
word of me to understand. 
In my devastation, she is always there 
to provide effusively her hand. 
In the weariness of my life, with her, 
I may lose to be in link. 
But she ever remembers me whenever I 
breathe or my eyes blink. 
I can say that in search of heaven, 
I needn't to go anywhere. 
I would like to put my head in my 
mother's lap, as its only there.. 

Copyright © Hina Saxena | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |


A grim, gray day,
endless rain coming in off the ocean.
Endless calls from other people,
"What part do we need for this?"
"Can you order it for us?"
"A happened and then B happened, what does it mean?"
"Do we hold this part toward the motor side,
or toward the brake side of the centrifuge,
when we're tightening it up on the horizontal shaft?"

There he was.
At the grocery store, picking up some stuff -
we were going to be working late that night.
God, people are slow,
wandering around like they don't know what they want,
like they have no other place to go.
Get out of my way,
get out of my way.
Tunnel vision in the fog,
man on a mission,
big mass moving at speed
to the end of the task.

There he was, 
in his mom's shopping cart,
staring at me.
Little guy, probably 2 years old,
'Popeye' looking with a knit cap on his head,
half winking at me with one eye.

He was beyond 'stranger anxiety' or never had it.
He looked at me, and he knew me -
I was one of his.
He was a shaman, an imp,
a grinning cherub with a touch of guile.
So young, but he was aware,
aware that he *was,*
and that on the other end,
there was somebody who also was,
and he felt the humor and joy
which surely must be mystical.

I've thought of him a thousand times,
his little face.
A bright sun in a dark universe.

Copyright © Doug Vinson | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

Sand Castles

Upon a beach I came to stand
And watched a child at play. 
He did while playing in the sand
A point of life convey. 

With scoops and buckets he did build 
A structure tall and grand. 
And to the child the beach did yield 
A castle made of sand. 

But as he left, I do recall, 
Away I did not turn. 
And with the coming night would fall
A lesson to be learned. 

The tide came in, with force did strike, 
The castle could not stand. 
And I was shown how life is like
A castle made of sand. 

And man is but a child at play, 
His works they will not last. 
For all he builds within days
Shall be by time surpassed. 

Each thing we do, Each thing we say, 
Each notion we conceive,
They all to soon shall pass away, 
Yes, this I do believe. 

We leave no mark, we leave no trace
That shall forever stand 
Be sure my friend time will erase
Our days however grand.

Copyright © Stan Bradford | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry |

I can't stand labels

Victor or victim
Survivor or miserable wraith
All those labels, I have to prove something.
Feeling horrible is a sin, 
Having survived hell is something to be proud of?

Let me tell you something
As a small child I was abducted
I survived the road to hell; hell itself, and back again
This left my body broken
And my mind shattered

Let me ask you something
Are you more empathetic when I smile and shrug
And say: hey! This is me and I love my wheelchair
Or when I tell you I struggle every day?
The answer is not that simple

Yes, I am a survivor
But it’s not an accomplishment
It is just a status report: I survived
Am I a victor? Yes I am. I won, you see?
I still live, and put some of them in prison.

Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

Metallic Skin

“Metallic skin"
I dont lotion anymore
Such acts would soften an  amour now immune to abuse.

Its now 8'o clock and I can tell that mommy is already asleep.

I prepare a clean skin to be dumped in acts of unwanted desires.
A child's room to become the scene for subjected sin in sex!
My Innocents awaits to be taken once more, soon my Dora underwear will be torn off by a gentleman with the courtesy of secretly replacing them.

Swiper's car pulls up
A man of work, he stops not to say a thing, he pulls the door and creeps right in.
Right on schedule sir!
Yes sir!
Yes sir!
The soldiers on the television, I turned their voices up.

I sit in the corner, further away from him, I pressed my face into the arms of meeting walls, the spot where my tears kept me clean.

His five knives went jammed in my neck! I bit my lips causing my metallic skin to flick a tooth in the back of my head.
I swallowed it as my signature, approving this sentence.

Molten lava between my legs.
The friction scrapes me in and out!
Head held down, bowed to the name who sits on my family tree, I am green but he still picks me!
We are dogs, family on top of family, he did it horridly, a gentleman without hospitality.

He gave me something much bigger than me, pressure to the pipe,
it laid inside of me.
My reflection shows a prospective whore
Daddy what should I become a Lady of the night? For every night you open my little books to read me!

This red liquid drips me colourful, I paint a dead colouring book.
Daddy I am small but my tears are big, a million times I died in my own liquid.
I don't have a shadow anymore for I am not worthy to be seen. 
My skin grows but I shrink, dreams died one stroke at a time. He smashed my metalic skin.

Now I am HIV “Aladeen" my curves curls up cursed touched by a related beast. I am done, I am drowned in my metalic skin.

By: Ramone Young
Poetic System Kidz Entertainment.

Copyright © Ramone Young | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Ever Lasting Love Of A Child

             ~The Ever Lasting Love Of A Child~

You live and still living through thee only love that can last a 
whole life time between us,that same love we knew yesterday 
when we were born remains with us today, tomorrow, and after

A love so deep that only you our mother can feel it,as it
Is an unconditional love that has no end,your giving,your 
love that knows no boundaries,Its real we feel it in our depth
daily when you are not surrounding us,Its for good,Its not an
illusion mom,because Its pure.

A love which transforms our shadows to experience the 
need to stay alive,your existence in our lives will never 
fade away,our respect,our missing you allows our tears
to leave traces on our cushions during the night.

That instant love of the moment when we were born Is an 
everlasting love,we feel it,our loneliness vanishes,memories 
do not seem far away,that reality will always remain in 
process of becoming even when aging.

A love without pain this is what you made us feel,a love that 
cries out loud even be heard with the rumbling of thunder. 
That same love can be felt between electric wires,our phoning
you everyday,its so full of truth so beautiful it feels like 
a spiritual love, our beloved mom.

Seconds never pass unaccounted for,you even wipe away 
our clouded eyes,that kind of love mom can even predict
our happiness no matter what the outcome of our 
coming years would bring.

That same love has so much emotions it illuminates our souls, 
its untouchable,immeasurable,unforgettable,it is a reason 
for our existence,your love cures our pain even when 
too much time has passed away.

Mom, we both your sons will love you,forever an everlasting love.
Sorry Mum we couldn't be with you in person, but our heart
cries out for you, Happy Mothers Day. Your Sons.

Contest for PD. Happy Mothers Day
                13/5/2013   (Win No. 8)

Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

Message to You

Please dry your eyes, now don’t you cry...
Let me share with you a lullaby....
I used to tuck you into bed....
Back when you were young....and such a sleepy head....
Disappointments are many in this life we lead....
But I know you’re strong and will succeed....
Please trust in me for I have a message to send....
You will never back down or crack and bend....
It is your nature to love and be kind....
Negatives don’t linger in your mind....
You're still that little girl who once sat on my knee....
With those big blue eyes looking up at me....
So I would like to take this opportunity....
When there's not enough sun....and  too much rain....
Lots of happiness, and very little pain....
Just like the moment, when my heart did sing....
With all the joy that you did bring....
To each, and every one of us....
Without any fret and not much fuss....
I am very proud of what you have become....
And all your accomplishments of what you’ve done....
Unconditional love will never go out of style....
When your tears can be replaced.....
With this Grandmothers’ smile....

Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Child With Child Part 1

                          " A Child With Child"   (Part 1)

She made a mistake Her future was at stake Already two months with child She decided not to hide Had to tell somebody It just could not be anybody.

Her thoughts went to her mother afraid to tell her father or her brother
Knocking on her mothers door when opened knelt on the floor please mama forgive me don’t forsake me I am your child but with child.

Her mother’s reaction quickly took action slapped hard on her face screamed
 “What a disgrace” took her by her hand tossed her outside on the sand
She knew that was the end.

Quickly decided to defend Herself and her unborn she will fight and not be thrown and will make it on her own.

Her life started When she departed From her own home In search of another home. Although she was alone She kept dreaming of her unborn.

One day her newborn was born a boy opening her arms held him like a toy
As she  felt no more a child and promised to take care of her child.

Two years passed away they were so happy and gay He was the sunshine of her day even after a working day. When she was home He never left her sight.

Until late one night She woke up to a bang Thinking someone rang She ran to open the door But there he was her son Laying on the floor.

Grabbing him close to her heart Just ran outside Having no time to cry Or even try To see if he was alive But prayed he would survive.

She believed in fate at the hospital gate she gave her son away hoping in no delay anyone ! someone ! please oh God ! help me!

Waking up she heard a noise than a voice looking up a white shadow was wiping her tears Held her hand Needless to utter another word
She felt the sword go straight to her heart and just fell apart as she knew that was the end my only son is gone forever and ever..
Good bye.

Therese Bacha

Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Child Got Married Part 2

                                   "A Child Got Married."  (Part 2 )

A child raped at fourteen A child with child at sixteen A child lost a child at eighteen Still a child married at eighteen.

She met a young man named Larry And finally accepted to marry him
She is in heaven dreaming of a life Just being a good wife At last no more alone
She’ll have her man a home of her own.

Revealing his love while giving her hope He convinced her the same day to elope Even with no horses or carriage and not Being a bride in white She still had the honeymoon and marriage.

Closing her eyes feeling everything will be bright When at the end of this day and during the night They will be husband and wife. Laying side by side on a silk bed to share their love As already she was a woman in love.

Their home was on top of a hill Everything so quiet and still
She woke up early at dawn Running outside to sit on the lawn
Feeling the cool breeze While watching the birds on the trees
Twittering to each other their love song believing this is 
where she’ll belong Forever and ever.

Two years passed so fast When pregnant she became at last
Her happiness was so everlasting when Nine months later she gave birth
To a most beautiful baby boy on earth She asked her husband
if she can name him “JOY”

Dozing off feeling so peaceful Knowing she’ll wake up with a smile on her face As her baby Joy was going to help her erase All the bad memories of her past.

Her coming days and months were so busy She realized that it hadn’t been easy with Larry Especially he didn’t look happy nor merry He started drinking day and night That’s when she felt something was not right.

One night she begged him Please Larry tell me ! talk to me! Larry I am your wife She was crying so strong he wiped away her tears But knew he couldn’t wipe away her fears.

He pulled her close to the fence Where it was dim with no lights
For her not to see his tears or fears Kissing her and holding her so tight
Bidding her a Farewell.

He ran racing inside Hurrying to end his life With the tie around his neck He pulled hard As he only knew In just a few days His sickness will attack All his body And take away all his power He decided to Die.


Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

Tomorrow Is Another Day

Tomorrow Is Another Day

Indeed, today’s
‘been no crystal stairway’;
rather, more of a steep
winding staircase
with veiled challenges
rivaling the trials of old Job;
and making a mockery
of the efforts of old Sisyphus.

My bridge
over troubled waters
proved too weak
to bear me over—
falling under the weight
of my burdens
as if a grasshopper
bridled to haul bales of hay.

So stop whining child—
‘bout no desert with supper:
the pre-paid pizza
an error in house address.

is another day.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |



Her baptism with fire did not provide her healing
as in dust and grime, sharp memories still arise.
The arch of her wide, blue, eyes showed cognizance
but not repentant for long ago actions of the man who
stifled her youth. She despaired. 
Shoulder-length is her crown of hair. She has no money,
she modeled naked to earn her stay, this led her far away.
Beyond her, the world died and recovered but she rose
like a cork upon the tide.
Her ruined innocence birthed a fruit of cruel, curled longing. 
Spent now, she's in dreamless state; her heart-crimson lips
and flashing red cheeks have been honeyed with whiskey's taste,
mascara snaked about the pale, spiraling emptiness of her eyes.
Yes, she has been defaced; past ghosts hover and infest,
yet, her posture relaxed as she sat in solitude on the balcony, 
noiseless, reminiscing by gone days; haunted by dreams 
of might have beens before abuse destroyed her thoughts of truth._
~Inspired by the painting: Portrait of Carol Nye Rhoades 
(Robinson) by Katherine Nash Rhoades 1915~

***for Debbie Guzzi's: Ten Paintings, Ten Poems, Ten Days NOT a Contest, 
a wonderful learning experience.. Thanks... =`)

__Olive Eloisa D. Guillermo__
January 12, 2015

Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo - Fraser | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

Nature's Sweet Brown Child

I am the ginger brown of the Egyptian,
The blackness of the Sudan.
I am the beauty to which the birds sing,
I have the supremeness of the mighty lion.

I am the Orchid that adorns the  Nile,
And the brightness of shimmering stars.
I am the nomad who travels the Sahara,
I am known throughout the lands afar.

I am akin to the American Indian, Asians,
Africans and Europeans the same.
And yet here I am lost inside my country,
Where no one recognizes my name.

My skin is so pure, a pecan brown,
Blessed with beauty by God aplenty.
And some try to call me only black,
And say I am not akin to any.

Yet I am the golden brown of the desert
And I have the sweetness of the Nile
I am the beauty of Africa’s jungles and flowers
For I was born natures sweet brown child

Copyright © Wendell Brown | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

The failing education system

the Indian education system is the worst
because the parents and students aim for first
this is because education is turning out to money
but this is not funny
each individual has a dream
but sometimes the light does not beam
because of the society
and the parents anxiety
every parent wants their child to get education stardom
and snatch away the child's freedom
the parents doesn't want their child to gain knowledge
and they want their child to put their effort till the edge
no one can understand that marks are just numbers
and they make us climbers
how can numbers be a mark of our thinking capacity in our brain
the sentences we read from our book will vanish like rain
the disaster is the television publicity for the topper
and everyone thinks the toppers are sharper
but most of the topper are just blind fold in mugging up each line
without understanding, but everyone thinks its fine
because of this attitude of Indians we are down
and other country treat us like clown
and mold us according to their wish
like their favorite dish
memory is just a skill
it cannot lead us to the top of the hill
in depth knowledge will lead us to great height
like wright brothers who found flight
whenever this situation changes our country will shine
and other countries will wait back in line
India should make leaders
and not workers 

Copyright © yashika ramesh | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |


#1. Armaggedon is not a geographical
location. The battle goes on within us
between the will or ego and the spirit. 
Divinity lives within this battlefield in 
our heart and souls. 

#2. Armaggedon is not a remote event in history 
but an occasion for the Self to connect more fully 
to the nature of Divinity which  resides both within
and beyond the self in three different ways.

#3. Armaggedon. The Self is the creation of God. 
The serial disasters that humanity accumulates
in our lives are not from an All Powerful God 
handing out retribution or revenge or indifference. 
Divinity promotes that love is primary. 

#4. Armaggedon is an opportunity to realize the
personality of God within our own lives.
Justice, wisdom, love, knowledge, thoughts,
feelings and behavior, except for evil, are aspects 
of the personality of God. It is our responsibility 
to merge with Divinity more fully to strengthen
those aspects of divinity within ourselves.

#5. Armaggedon is not a place outside of us, 
it is a symbol of our faith. Being a child of God
means you already have the inherent qualities 
of God within you, we all do, no matter what 
religion. Like a mother who gives birth to a child, 
the child has aspects of the mother’s personality
within her. Thus, as God has given birth to us all, 
we have attributes of Divinity within that we 
need to grow and strengthen. 

#6. Armaggedon. The fever is already raging.
in a war that surpasses all wars and that is
alive within us on a daily basis. This war
holds the souls weight of my loyalty
toward or away from love, the primary aspect
of God.

Copyright © julie heckman | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

Why Little Girl Screams--Manchester Terrorist Attach

An innocent small girl is crying on the roadside
her face seems very candid and
expressions look naïve, but
nobody knows the cause of her sadness and 
and no one can ever feel 
the hidden wounds inside her heart 
Why does she scream?
Why does she shed painful tears?
Her eyes are tired of crying and
her tears are frozen
today there is no one to wipe her tears
maybe she is missing her childhood
when she used to insist on Barbie Doll
holding the fingers of her mother
and holding the hand of the father
used to chase butterflies in the garden
Used to kiss the droplets of rain
while floating a paper boat in the pond
Will her days come back?
Listening to mother's lullaby at midnight
used to fly with the fairies in the blue sky
Maybe she is still crying
now her tears must be tired
she still is waiting for her parents to come
But she does not know that
her parents will never return
God has called them to heaven
because her parents, at the hands of cruel terrorism,
have been killed 
in the Menchester Bomb Blast
on 22nd May 2017.
Let us pray that the soul of her parents
rest in piece!

(By Kishan Negi)

Copyright © KISHAN NEGI | Year Posted 2017

Details | Prose Poetry |


He comes, a seaside golem,
walking like Frankenstein’s monster
because sand has filled the crack in his
behind, and his feet are shod in at least
two pounds of beach.
He carries his pail and shovel.

“Mommy, I have fun!” he chirps.

And I love him in spite of his sandy behind,
in spite of the leaden feet
and the grit in his hair,
in spite of the fact that I know who’ll be
removing the sand.

I love him because he’s my golem,
and, well, he had fun.

Copyright © Mary Oliver Rotman | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Leaders and Watchers

Why do you do as you do
and not do as you don't say?
asked the journalist of the leader,
asked the child of her parent.

Because I like to help
and I do not enjoy recognizing myself
as a selfish hypocrite,
responds the leader
to writers of famous and infamous history,
respond political/economically powerful parents
to children writing co-creation stories.

How do you know you are helping
and not helping retain a flawed toxic elitist system,
maintaining poverty of margins
far below wealth piling into too much power?
asked the cynical divestor
challenging this help-as-health investor,
asked the hurt and wounded child
challenging her health-confessing professing culture.

I doubt I could help
without co-investing in flawed health with pathology
in both political and economic systems,
responds this wu wei leader,
responds this co-mentoring parent,
but what have you noticed
might help more
while collaterally hurting less?

It seems to me,
writes aging journalist,
resonate maturing residents of Earth,
those plans and budgets and stories cooperatively researched and written
by and with and for co-investors in our civil trusting enterprise
sustain more healthy wealth,
with less pathological backwash,
as compared to Business As Usual,
self-hypnotic static monocultures,
winning to lose further competitors toward too-exclusive empowerment.

Why do you notice as you do
and do as you would become?
asked the leader of the journalist,
asks our Elders of their multiculturally extending Tribe.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |



Afraid to look, eyes shut tight
l am a child in the
DARK seeing shadows
in a room all alone.
I pray for a brother
or a sister,to laugh
in the dark with me.
We could play
until day break, and
then fall asleep.
Shadows bouncing off walls
lights from the passing cars causing  
reflections to dance in my mirror.
The music is not sweet,
loudly it booms
scares me I cannot sleep.
No one to tell me stories
no one to chase away
the boogie man.
I hit the floor on my knees..
I pray to the lord."
"God please" I need a friend to be
here in the dark with me"
I am not picky a sister or
a brother will do,
I will be brave.
I shall shield them
from these shadows;
I will hold them and comfort them,
I will open my eyes for them..
and no longer be afraid.
I do not want to be,an
"Only Child.

Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |


As she grows, a spirit wild.
The beauty of an untamed child.
A heart betrayed,
The beauty meets the beast.
Untethered, still, her own free will.
Orphaned to the winter’s chill.
See through,
silk tears,
careful is her capture.
The mask in place. Her mind, her space.
Trades in her heart,
her thoughts, replaced.
Faux smiling,
Expression imprisoned.
Enduring wind blown offerings,
as delicate as angel’s wings.
Making summer out of snow.
Ever longing so to be,
The ruler of her soul.

Copyright © Riss Ryker | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Christ Child

In eternity past, the Father asks the Son to go down.
Having equal Love for humans the "Yes" comes fast.
When Creation leads to time, the world waits for 4 BC
Marking the start of the end of Satan's long rule at last.

Did Satan laugh at the poor setting for Jesus' birth here?
A cry in a cave for animals pierces the night, changing all.
Shepherds worship; later wise kings give precious gifts.
Mary and Joseph marvel, yet Herod's rage soon gives a call.

A call to leave quickly to Egypt where they'll live as refugees.
Sparing the Christ child a merciless death of those under three.
When Herod finally dies, Jesus' parents head back to Israel.
Still not fully safe from mad rule, Nazareth is their destiny.

Here the child will grow to be a man, following His parents rule.
Surprising the Pharisees with His wisdom at 12, at 30 riling them.
Preaching with authority, healing the incurable, loving the humble.
Women weep repenting at his feet; one's healed by touching his hem.

Zacchaeus risks going into a tree and finds Jesus' salvation so free.
Nicodemus comes at night to ask and ends amazed he's met God's Son
The Woman at the Well gets far more vital water than the usual kind.
And many healed can't but tell others of the miracle God has done.

The babe in the manger now stills the storm and his disciples believe
Even seeing the dead arise, like Lazarus in the tomb for four days.
Foretelling a greater rising coming but not before immense suffering.
The sword Mary was told would pierce her heart is soon on its way.

For most religious leaders cannot tolerate Jesus' lack of respect for them.
Calling them whitewashed tombs and pointing pride out to Pharisees.
Not endearing Himself with the establishment, but following God's way.
Knowing soon He'd be betrayed, arrested, tried and tortured brutally.

Still, he calmly feeds them body bread and blood wine in a final feast.
Tells them the Spirit comes, and prays they'd be one like Father and Son.
Heads to the Garden, prays to His Father for another way if possible.
Your will be done ends and the soldiers come and with Judas kiss it's done.

The most pure, innocent Man who's ever lived is now in hostile hands.
A trial by dark without witness or any rights – and off to Pontius Pilate.
Then Herod then back to Pilate whose wife dreamed Jesus was innocent.
But the people's cries to crucify win over – Jesus caught in intrigue's net.

The child of Bethlehem now hung on a Cross between two criminals.
The Light of the World by darkness and our sins is being slowly slain.
Feeling forsaken by God, but then "Into Your hands I commit my spirit."
Reunited and soon to show the world that this Child was no ordinary one.

Risen as Jesus predicted, for how can death conquer everlasting, perfect life?
From childhood to adult not one sin, not once yielding to Satan's temptations.
Proving we can have life eternal if we confess and believe in Jesus as our Savior.
Calling His followers in risen form to await the Spirit and share Christ to the nations

Copyright © Scott Bronner | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

What a Dad Should Be

What a Dad Should Be.
Steve L. Siegel
July, 2015
In case you didn’t know this, 
A Dad should be always a bit radical…
He should love you even more when you’re unlovable
Hug you tighter when you’re un-huggable
And bear you most when you’re un-bearable…
Oh yes, a Dad should be the world’s most fanatic…
He should love you when the world boos you
He’d want to dance with you when you give him any good news
Know that he’ll be crying with you when you cry to…
The thing most of all a Dad should be a mathematician…
He has be able to multiply the joy, divide the sorrow,
Subtract the past; and add all of the tomorrows,
Calculate the deep needs within your heart,
Lastly always be bigger than all the sums of their parts…
P.S. To my loving daughter Tammy who together we went to AA.
Both still sober after twenty years now. We made it!

Copyright © Steven Siegel | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |


 The clouds gathered dark and wide, 
All in the sky high above the trees,
With the breeze in its natural form,
Refreshing, relieving and pleasing to seek.

Gazing at the sky i began to think,
Deeper in thoughts, i started to sink,
As the droplets fell on my palm,
And it started to shower all over in calm.

Just then, it struck me so sudden, 
Somewhere in my mind and heart,
Is this the same rain i found joy in?
Just like the child inside of me hidden?

Building boats from paper to play,
And winning races in little streams all the way,
''YES! I WON! " i always cheered happily,
Like the noble prize in my custody. 

The splashing of water was too much fun,
Especially in muddy water and sand,
And clothes went even more dirty and bad,
To wear clean again would make me so glad. 

The drinking of water from the rains,
Opening mouth to collect sum large,
And spitting it out in a spree again,
And win competition to spit too far.

The broken bicycle chains and spokes,
And the heavily punctured tyres,
Same old excuses to get wet in rain,
And never ever used to get tired. 

All of these memories came in a flash,
Making me teary eyed,
Sitting inside the office and wondering why,
Why did childhood flashed so fast by?
The old games and lovely friends,
The silly chats and stupid blames,
Did childhood faded much too early? 
While our hearts are till date so young,
Is this the same rain i used to find in?
Is this the same rain i used to had fun!

Copyright © Suraj Grover | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

My Child

My child
You are the fresh spring air,
You are the warm sun upon my hair.
You are the cool morning dew,
You are the summer skies so blue.
You are the strong ocean breeze,
You are the gentle falling leaves.
You are the light that brightens the night,
You are the mountains filled with might.
You are the ever so changing snowflakes,
You are all that is good, which God makes.
You are my soul, and every heartbeat,
You are the one who makes me complete.

You are, my child.

Copyright © Kelli Settle | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

Freedom of a Child

When life was easy 
Because you knew it all
Rainy days weren't a hindrance,
It was just the ocean's way of sending a postcard.

Instead of treading through sludgy puddles like it's a minefield 
Happily splashing through them, 
Because the wetter the better.

And when the sun comes out 
And a vibrant rainbow pierces the clouds
It's not the refraction of sunlight through raindrops,
It's simply magic.

As the sun gradually disappears into the endless horizon,
It's not time to mourn over the passing sun,
Because now it's the stars' turn to dance.

As those moments of puddles and rainbows grow more limited 
Make sure to catch the moment
To live free
With freedom only a child can possess.

Copyright © Danita Windy | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

What My Grandma Said

What My Grandma Said
By Curtis Johnson

I never knew her as a big talker
She was to me a great listener
She was also a great observer

I have always remembered  8 words she always said
She’d often say, “Go in a haste; come in a pace”.

As a kid at the time, I never questioned what she meant
Like my siblings, I simply listened to her, and away I went

I didn’t know if she was trying to be poetic;
But now I know that she was a great teacher

To me, those 8 words have taught lessons in life
I have always heard that “Haste makes waste”
So grandma wasn’t telling  me to hurry up

In my departure, she was saying,                                                              “Get on with it; get it done”.
And upon my return, she was saying,                                                       “Have a sense of order and precision as you return”.

I must say that as I look back over my life, I can say,
“Thank you grandma, I did what you said in the way you told me to”.
“I had initiative to pursue my dreams; and with a sense of timing,order, and organization, I got things done”.

Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Birds Of A Feather


We The poets, and songsters, 
with pure hearts; Revolutionaries,
whom have lived and died for truth 
will sit among us there.

Birds of a feather flock together;
Red ants go where red ants go.
Giraffes don't hang with the water Buffalo.

When you die, there will be no room where I am.
You have lived your life and worked your plans.
Now you want to be in the room with me.!
There will be no room in the room I am in.
We be the people of the lesser sins.
Oh, ye of pernicious deeds:

“Opprobrium” be the name posted 
on the room's door that you'll share.
So, go inside and join your kind there.
This time will not be separated by Kin or skin.
But by the state of mind you kept your soul in.
So now go sit in a room named “OPPROBRIUM”.
You all there are of like minds, 
and have committed archaic crimes.

Child molesters, murderers, thieves, and the like.
You shall smell each other’s stench forever. 
And never sit among the righteous.

Surely you shan't find me, 
because I am not your kind; 
So, there is no room, 
in our room for you.
Your mind and deeds, 
dwell with the deleterious, 
that's where you belong.

We be birds of the same feathers 
shall sing a familiar song; 
Water Buffalo shall roam with
Water Buffalo’s. 
Red ants will go, where Red ants go; 
Giraffes will water themselves 
in different watering holes.

Me and my like-minded poets shall dwell 
with righteous, like-minds and pure hearts, 
laughing, reading, and enjoying 
each other’s thoughts.
We who have intentionally done no harm; 
Will continue to speak truth and 
defy the reprehensible. 
We will all cross over to the other 
side, and seek our own kind.
Poets, truth-seekers, and 
scholars shall exchange stories.
We will laugh, reminisce, and write.

This room be filled with us of the lesser 
crimes, enjoying, adoring one another 
for we all are of one mind. 
At one, with one another and the 
Creator; We are the Poets, 
Storytellers, songsters, 
chanting out our rhymes. 

There is no room in our room, 
for we are not your kind. 
Birds of a feather flock together:
Like minds go where like minds go.
“Giraffes don't hang with the Water Buffalo”.
Take heed from the simple life, forget about equality. 
The Creator then made man in his own image
designed by his own mind,
and placed each with their own Kind.

Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

God With Us

"What is your heart called, Elizabeth?"
'My Heart is called, Grief.'
"Why? Why is your heart called grief?"
'Because it's yearning, has been yearning, and will forevermore continue to yearn.'
"Your heart yearns Elizabeth? What is it like? Elizabeth, what does yearning feel like?"
 A lake, a river, an ocean, mountains, and trees were all around. The clouds, the wind, that heavy sense... I stared off into the distance.
'It's like out of empty darkness the sound of a sad, shattered, broken heart crying out. Yet depressed in silence and is in solitude. It sees all the secrets and lies... that lie in the dust.'
I turn to the little girl. 'How do you heal a Broken heart?'
"That IS deep, Elizabeth. Your pain.., now I can feel it. But--but you are single-minded Elizabeth, not knowing Emmanuel.' "
 The wind picks up my long dark hair revealing a tan naked back, and I once again look out at the ocean. 
'I know Emmanuel not, because--because I've become unfaithful.'
"I have heard of the pure in Heart' before."
I look down at the little girl, oh so beautiful. 
"And it's those who seek God."
The little girl looks into my eyes with those eyes, I cannot remember what color they were.
"And God they shall find."
I gasp.
The little girl then holds my right hand. "Elizabeth, dear Elizabeth, 'Pure in Heart' does not mean free of sin, but rather knowledge and understanding."
But my mind doesn't think of this. I can't let go of the thought of why this little girl talked with so much wisdom yet appeared to be about the age of seven. And then the selfish thoughts all come back to mind once again. Placing me in the deepest rabbit hole. To sudden terror, to extreme darkness. I hear my heart mourning. I can't take it any longer, I free my hand from the little girl, clash my own together and I fall right down to the ground in front of her, at her mercy.
'Can you!? Can You please free my Heart!? I have died already, I know I have! I wish some of the things I ever did never happened, I'm Lost, tired, angry, confused, selfish and bound in chains with every step I take! Please tell me what I must do to unleash myself! Please, I am willing to do the good, for the God I left long ago that I believe in so much.'
 The wind blows harder then ever at that moment, and takes my hair across my face. I see nothing but I shiver. And the shivering becomes trembling. I felt like I was being held, I felt like I was being cradled, I felt like the sea was rocking me back & forth, and I felt sand be...

Copyright © Elizabeth Brown | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |


Rural Ireland 1964.
First day of school.
Little brown school case.
School overlooking beautiful bay.

Miss Mc Cloon, elderly teacher.
Good friend of my Dad.
Looks up on hearing loud whistle.
"You must go now."

Halfway down school lane,
Daddy waits for Jeaniemac.
Has a taxi run to do.
Would not dream of leaving
without me.

I still have a vision of seeing him waving when I stood up to leave.
I was his little pet, and he took me everywhere with him.
Perhaps it was he who cried, not me, on that first day... away.

Copyright © JEAN MURRAY | Year Posted 2015