Prose Poetry Childhood Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Childhood

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She read me Dr Seuss

6:35 A.M.

Sunrise against my neck
that no cheap tan booth could ever match.

I ring the doorbell in anticipation of joy’s injection.

I needed it.

Because I left my cell phone in the car,
as I didn’t want to hear any chimed email
or text annoyances.

And the car just got cleaned,
only for the birds to have their way
on its waxy shine.


Time to grab the flamethrower from my trunk!

But, before I could scream in Braveheart declaration,
there she was.

Her 6 yr old smile,
made of 1/4 inch gaps between innocence enamel,
captured me like no other could.

“Tio”, she preached in angelica sonata.

As she held me,
held me,
with puppy love warmth.

Even the rainbows fell to its knees.

She took off my jacket with ferret-like perkiness and
asked me to sit on the floor with her.

But, not before offering to toast me some Eggo waffles
with a big glass of Ovaltine…
…in her Little Mermaid glass,
proudly made in North Korea.

It even had the dictator’s initials and a bucktooth smiley face stamp, signed in glitter
that said:

Thank God I just took my online course in Child Safety.
I was ready!

As I sip on Little Mermaid’s curves,
shaped in plastic, swirly straw weirdness,
a sound blasts off from a Barbie radio.

My 2 yr old angel galloped into this heart of mine,
with Tinnitus piercing scream & laughter,
tackling me in Incredible Hulk lunge.

“Hi Tio”, she whispered, before she hopped back upstairs, 
Ninja Turtle-style,
laughing maniacally with rapid head tilts, left to right to left.

Boys will fear her. 
And I couldn’t be more proud.

After two moments of silence, 
my 6 yr old angel places her Dr. Seuss book on my lap,
as she sits in front of me.

“I can r-r-read
with my eye-s

She carefully completed the sentence,
as my eyes instantly fill with leaky pride
and an ingrained smile.

10 minutes later, she shut her book and asked me how she did.
“I am so proud of you my angel.”
“You have come so far.”

I had to hold back tears because I didn’t want to throw her off.
Yet I think she knew,
because she kept her head down and smiled with gentle starburst.

Mission accomplished.

And it was then where I heard her say,
“Those who matter don’t mind,
those who mind don’t matter.”

But she was quiet, looking at me with tilted head & smile.

For it was my inner child, 

© Drake J. Eszes

Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2011

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The Day After Christmas

On the day after Christmas, they started appearing,
cast out of houses, stripped of their finery,
lying crooked in the gutter, garbage bags flanking.

My brothers and I walked to school
and halfway there, three blocks away,
was a steep ravine called The Hollow.
A place of some dark mystery in summer,
one hundred feet deep and forbidden land
according to most parents, The Hollow
sang its song to all neighborhood kids.

Returning to school after Christmas,
my brothers and I would drag the discarded
Christmas trees along the sidewalk and onto the bridge
that spanned The Hollow, then heave them over the railing,
watching their graceful tumble earthward, 
their air brushing final fall.

"Hey, I used to do that too!" Donnie was a lot older,
almost done with high school, and his walk took him
right by our elementary school - he laughed to see us
hauling the trees to that concluding bridge.
He grabbed a large one, bigger than any of us could handle,
and upon the bridge had us help him hold it upright on the railing,
as it stood in life, as it looked down upon Christmas gifts;
we watched it slowly lean into Gravity,
watched the balletic descent into silence.

Donnie kept with us that first month into the new year,
the pile of trees growing in the bottom of The Hollow.
He told us things, we told him things,
we asked him things and he told us more.

My brothers and I still talk about that big tree
on the railing of the bridge over The Hollow.
It hit right on top of the pile of other trees
and bounced off to the side, its own special place.

As January wore on, we didn't find as many trees,
and ultimately it was all done.  
Eventually the school year too was done,
and then more years, and school itself was done.
The trees at the bottom of The Hollow rotted away to nothing.
Somewhere in there my mom told me that Donnie
had been shipped off to war, killed within a few weeks.
We had that one magic month.

December 25, 2016

For Anthony Slausen's contest - 'The Day After Christmas'

Copyright © Doug Vinson | Year Posted 2016

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Dear Victor

Dear Victor

The day you walked in I was just ten years old and for the first time I felt the gentle butterfly flutters of a young hearts innocent attraction. 
I wasn't the only one. With your floppy golden hair and aqua blue eyes your arrival caused quite a stir and class distraction. 
Vivacious, popular among boys and girls alike, open in a way we weren’t used to. 
Your candour brought forth such delightful laughter and certainly more than the odd blush from me! 
Many a lesson trying not to gaze in your direction. 
My one and only lashing of the belt for tracing a handwriting exercise in my haste to escape the classroom to join you in the afternoon sunshine. 
The teacher having left the door tantalisingly ajar so that those still inside were tormented by the sight of shirt tails flying in the breeze and the sweet smell of freshly mown grass. 
The valentine card I sent (well, had someone sneak onto your chair!) had pride of place, hidden under your pillow at home. Your older sister taking me to show it there, both of us giggling and shushing each other as we went. 
Any mortification at being unmasked as the sender lost in the sheer giddiness of this sudden turn of events. 
Never boyfriend and girlfriend, too young for that. We stole playful kisses during postman’s knock at parties (somehow it was always you who came knocking) and when just a little older, we danced all the slow songs together. 
New school, new classes, new faces. No falling out, just a natural drifting away. 
I still liked to catch a glimpse of you amid the throng in the corridor just to know you were okay. My day made if I caught a smile.
Though no longer close, the news you were leaving left me sad and a with quiet sense of loss. I never got to say goodbye.
Every year I wished you a happy birthday in my heart - mine and yours being only two days apart.
A chance meeting, an acquaintance not seen since school, tossed me a casual remark - had I heard? Scant details barely registering. No? Really? I mimicked their casual tone.
Walked away angry, reeling, such tragic news imparted with such lack of feeling. 
No tears were shed for you. How could they, it wasn’t real, couldn’t be true. Just malicious gossip that had somehow filtered through.
Twenty years on, another chance encounter, this one moss edged and worn. 
No longer able to deny the truth there etched in stone. Finally the tears flow. 
I’ll never know what truly unimaginable pain caused you to take your own life nor, selfishly, do I want to. I only know that the torture of vicious bullies led to a young life being snatched away.
Forever dear Victor. I’ll treasure always my sweet memories of you.

In memory of 
Victor Wladysiuk
9th October 1975 - 10th October 1991


Copyright © Fiona Callaghan | Year Posted 2016

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Wood Carving

            Wood Carving

He sits there, not quite motionless, for
even the comfortable must alter their
perception occasionally, frozen stare
upon a craggy visage, tiny fox-like predator
eyes peering into your soul.  “What are his
origins?” ask the bespectacled intellectuals.
“Who is he?” and “Why has he taken up
his unwelcome residence here?”  The buses
pass carrying workers, students, captains
of industry. They look at him but they do
not see him.  The children see him.
Wonder in their dreams how he came
to be.  Some want to be rid of him.
They have no reason, no justification
for alarm, nothing to warrant their
uneasiness.  One daring young lady
sat beside him, whispered a secret to
him, both shook with laughter.
Passersby were startled to see the
interaction and summoned the
the childs mother.  “What have you
taught her that makes her think that
she can do such things?”  They asked.
The young lady tried to speak but was
hushed by the serious looks she was
getting from the adults.  That evening at
bed time the young lady’s mother asked
her: “What did you say to him?”.  “I said:
‘You look like grandpa.”.  The mother sat
back, quieting a tear, and reminded the
young lady that her Grandpa was no
longer here.  “I know, Mommy”.  She said.
Well then, what did “he” say to you?”
The young lady sat up in bed and smiled
“He said that he was there every day,
and any time I wished to sit with him
and read to him it would be fine.”
“Mommy”, she said, “do you remember
grandpa”?  “You know …how his face was
all rough, and his hands hard and
spidery, and how he would like it when
I sat with him and read?”  The tear that
had been held “quiet” made a sound,
ran down the mother’s face as she
hugged her daughter and put her
to bed.  The next day mother and daughter
walked to the old tree, felt the roughness
of his face, touched his spidery thin
branches, sat with him – and read.
Soon others came to visit, sitting and
whispering, laughing and reading.
for they know who he is, what his
origins are, why “he” waits so patiently.

John G. Lawless

For PD's WHATEVER - Poetry Contest

Copyright © John lawless | Year Posted 2014

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Mama's Song

I wander through my journey, interspersed with joy and pain, always grateful 
Though not by choice, some days are somber; yet others follow with abundant joy
In my solitude, memories come alive with the recall of some old song from another time
When life was carefree in everyway! No worries and not one care!
First heard as a child; the title now lost to me, so I’ll call it "Mama’s Song"
It’d start off soft and slow; its rhythm smooth, graceful, incredibly beautiful!
Then lingering on my mind, gently reviving memories lost somewhere in yesterday
It’d calm my spirit, take me away- away from countless, mundane tasks
All necessary things, but they arrest my days, imposing, threatening, vying for attention

There’s a constant battle that rages within, and I often ask, “Should I lay down this burden  
of joyless pursuits which hinder valid expressions from my heart?  Should I?
And to what profit?  Surely monetary gain is a necessity, but at what cost to my spirit??
Were I guardian only to myself, I’d simply choose to live lean somewhere by the sea
I would cast my net for food, and barter for grain and herbs.  However, the compass is set
So, I escape in the melodies, with my eyes closed, and fly high, above this terrain
Sailing on the massive wings of a Condor, unafraid; over rugged pathways and
Jagged edges of mountains that rise above the seas, far away from this place of constant 
weariness, on my way to a place more tranquil, somewhere in yesterday
I hover over rivers that give life to green valleys below, quite an amazing view to see!
Like black velvet ribbons they meander through the changing landscape
At an angle they shimmer like fine crystal in the afternoon sun, and in one breath,
I am there! At Mama’s feet, studying her as she sews dresses for my sisters and me 
I watch, I listen to her, softly singing; feel her contentment and peace through the song
Never complaining, never too tired to go beyond the call, to love and care for family 
Teaching by example, using less words, her quiet spirit, ever steadfast, strong
Those times when I feel I can not go on, when afraid I'll falter, I still hear the the melody 
and "Mama's Song"!

Note:  For Mama - Thank you for putting us first! For the many lessons learned which we nowteach our children.  RIP w/Papa!!

Copyright © Annalise Brigham...a.k.a. Audrey Haick | Year Posted 2010

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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 |

7 Gifts of the Holy Spirit Prayer

Lord God,
Stretch our mind/s with deep understanding of Wisdom
To obtain positive understanding with every complications
Counsel us with guidelines in our work

Give us Fortitude, strength, Patience and Tolerance to finish in peace successfully
Deliver knowledge in our mind/s
For us to receive Piety, goodness and devoutness to get satisfaction
With Holy Fear of the Lord-God, I/we ask in the name of Father Christ Jesus to be with us now and forever.


People can change the “our” to “their”, “him” or “his” when praying for others.

Copyright © Jacqueline R. Mendoza | Year Posted 2012

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Reflections of You

I caress the blooms of the lilac bush and breathe their sweet fragrant breath. Here in my garden where spring has risen from the melting heart of winter’s death. And when a gentle breeze  kisses my face, I am simply blown away, to that magical place, where you wait for me, along the Fundy Bay.

Bare foot, I skip down a Granite paved road, flanked with ditches where morning glories grow, as I move  through a mist of ocean brine, streaked with rainbows that melt in the morning sunshine and drip from the blooms of a every Sea Salt rose.

 The house - its asphalt shingles, sparkling in many shades of grey - stands firmly  on its hardwood pillars buried deep down in the clay,  the same clay I mould  into a tiny earthen vase, that joins the jars of  pollywogs and dandelion garlands, all lined up on the old root- cellar doors, where I play. 

 And in a cloud of purple perfusion, again, I breathe the breath from the lilac bush that grows there, beside the brook, as those white lace curtains flutter out the kitchen window, and  beat against the window frame -  fanning the heat from those fresh baked apple pies - as another tear falls from my eye.

Then,  from a distant pine, I hear the  white throated sparrow singing, her melancholy tune and the clap of the screen door as I step into that room, a child again breathing the breath from a lilac bloom. 

“Mom….. ……………. I’m home!”

Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2013

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Harmonic Spirits

Harmonic Spirits In a time of past; so far away just beyond where night meets the day two little children were born and raised in the deepest part of the forest, a mystery their father never saw their innocent faces Ancient spirits of woodland graves they became royalty of trolls, and trees the only two whom were human beings they lived out life happily some say they could even hear them singing in perfect harmony They ruled and were protected, by nymphs, fairies, elves, and of creatures of life and grave the trees fulfilled all of their needs The forest and it's wonder a family they became Mother Nature in loving ways came with the birds and bees She lifted them up hugging them, giving immortality in a world with so much pain yet they knew only harmony all of their days the legend of the forest royalty they became healing the creatures that go unseen saying hello and goodbye for many years the little boy and girl left beside an old oak tree one dark February harmonic spirits they are now, running wild and free...
About my children who are passed

Copyright © Danielle Wise Baxter | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

One Day at a Time

When I was young the stress clouds were more reliable, they came and went just like the light of day and the dark of night. As I got older, the stress clouds became more obstinate, seemed more serious, and stayed in my head as permanent residents. Then one day the clouds stopped moving. The dark foreboding clouds just sat there putting pressure on my body like an unattended pot of boiling water. That’s when I got the first message. One of the dark clouds spoke to me in my sleep and said, get your act together; there’s a difference between family and things.

After that, the stress clouds started moving again, changing their position in my head depending on the time of day. The pot of boiling water calmed down and the things got fixed and faded away into the light of day. But the family stress clouds were different. They had more energy and talked to me every day in the language of dying and the language of struggling and the language of trying. The pot of water continued to bubble around the edges making a painful clamor within my spirit.

That’s when I got the second message.  It came from the bubbles and reminded me of an ensemble of singers. The music was warm and inviting and sounded like elegant thinking. Manage the stress clouds one day at a time they sang with an encouraging voice. Manage the stress clouds one day at a time.

Copyright © Howard Dion | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Softer Way To Die

A Softer Way to Die

We live and study life
We pray that somehow
God changes his rules. 
No one wants to die
No one wants to follow
Those complicated laws;
I mean no lie-ing - no steal-ing
no sex - before marriage no
Fornicating, no killing
No lust-greed or defiling the earth.
All we can do now is try to find
" A softer way to die".
Pick your battles... 
There are many ways to die.
I asked, God why?
When mom threw a 
"Monkey wrench" in my world
Answering - "We all have to die"
I immediately winked at God... 
Thinking to myself (not I).
Gave him a little nudge;
Sidebar God: I said to God 
Adamantly "I do not want to die"
"Can you change the rules "?
I never heard back from him
On that subject.
I went to him again
God "Can you at least
Keep me with a mom- 
I said "So that I won't be an
Orphan like Shirley Temple”?
He did get back to me on that
And Mom is Alive and well
Plan A. (living forever) 
Still not executed. 
Once again contemplating
Thoughts on how I want to die.
I could not think of a pleasant way 
To die, none that seemed appealing.
Nor any options that would be fun.
hmmm, eat myself to death. 
Playing chicken with the train, 
Might prove thrilling. 
As time grew nigh
My thoughts continued 
.... On a softer way to die.
Childhood gone, middle age gone'
Old age approaching fast and furious
Destroying me like a sudden
Approaching hurricane... 
This storm knocked out my lights
Memory gone now.
Forgetting my life- my loved ones
Forgetting my friends, 
Children, and foes alike
Forgetting my wrongs - my sins
and accomplishments all.
Everything's gone. So, now 
What do I do?... How can 
I rewrite my life, Take account.
Of that which I remember not.
The realities if my existence
Has been wiped out from 
The Forest Fires burning
In my mind’s eye. 
Have no recordings of 
Who loved me or of who 
I shall never forgive.
How will I know that I ever even lived?
Taking my dark blank pages into 
The afterlife- My shadowy 
Existence ends. I feel no pain 
I Have no thoughts, 
Have nothing to contemplate.
For I have asked to live forever
Or that I die a, softer way
Forgetting to eat 
Forgetting to drink- 
Forgetting to swallow
Forgetting to breath... 
Forgetting this life-
I close my eyes and fade away.
© Vicki Acquah

Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Seaside Memories

Modest swimsuits, bathing boxes
 White-blue flesh ice cold
Scratchy towels, sandy sandwiches
 Pots of tea being sold
Foxford blankets, picnic baskets – 
A donkey ride on the strand
Flowery summer frocks, mischief brimming 
 A practical joke being planned 

Hesitant breast strokes – high pitched laughter
 Terror, delight ‘the cold’! -
Sunburn, windburn, scalded skin – 
‘You’ll remember this when you are old’
 Your mother is calling ‘the picnic is ready’
 ‘I’ll be there in a minute’, you say.
As you dive down again under – 
The sea bed to plunder -
‘There is treasure down there, Mam’ you say!’

Landladies’ rules, pubs with high stools
‘– A large bottle, sir, if you please -
And may be a chaser?’ ‘You are a disgrace, sir -
The night will blow away with the breeze’.
A day at the races, smiles on mens’ faces,
Jingles in pockets, dinner in ‘Rocketts’ -
 A beer and a fag, a joke and a drag – 
‘This is grand, Sir!’
Which horse do you fancy – I think Mary Nancy
Called after his missus – and just as delicious
‘A winner for sure, sir
 And what are you bettin’?  Think of what you’ll be gettin’
When you win on the jackpot –
 It is certain, sir!’
Sea-side rock plastic,
 Coloured windmills fantastic
Naughty postcards to be hidden
 – Their content forbidden, 
By your mother – 

The day’s nearly over – 
You are tired – you’ll recover
For a night at the amusements – you have one and twopence
Clean clothes, polished shoes and a song.

Copyright © Liz Walsh | Year Posted 2010

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 |



String bean of a youth because of an eating disorder
Found a cure for that ailment called Mary Jane
Grown a little bit south of the Tijuana border
Fleet of both feet and wit, Oop’s I forgot about the tongue
And a magnet for lots of chicks both old and young
Speaking quite softly yet carrying a very big stick at all times
A quick grasp of the English language both written
And spoken with the sweetness of rhymes
Became an object of more senseless violence not just
To the mother of step but also bullies, racist and wanna be thugs, 
Rejected the life of a loser being involved in crime and drugs
More interested in science, the stars and history that was past, 
They hated me even more each day for the A's I scored in every class
Evolution’s calling that puberty heralds were the same for him as all others
Cupid's onslaught of bows and arrows went over my head 
Years of mistreatment were turned around from foe to friend
Finally he could distinguish the difference between love and lust
And eventually learned of those who knew of honor that were worthy of trust
Elevation of status from nerd and geek to the conquering lord of hood boys and girls
Showed the masses of lost children treasure, not of diamonds, rubies and pearls
Taught them pente, mahjong, backgammon, and chess
Opened in their eyes many new worlds limited by the world not thought
In the hopes that one more spirit such as he had been rises from the mire
And is destined for a place of ascension in the azure skies

Copyright © Edward Ford | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry |


Some things are lost along the line
Some things, beautiful and fine
Driving down the lone road to the stream in my hamlet
It’s like yesterday; like catching birds from their nest
I giggled as I drove by
Mothers breast feeding babies and singing lullaby
Naked boys rolling condemned tires, and
Ripped virgins with little cloths coverings, as attires

I giggled as I drove by. It’s just like yesterday
I remember Jerome and others as we gathered to play
There was the moonlight rendezvous
Where we all gathered, boys, and girls, all of us
There was the tales by the moonlight,
Ancestral heritages, sacrifices and the Lion’s might
The Lion’s might, yet he falls beneath the crafty tortoise
I still can hear the choruses; I hear my youthful voice
I loved folklore songs. Wars songs for strong sons

Let me try seeing if I can still sing one more;
Yes! I still can sing “Omalingwo”
Omalingwo, Omalingwo tee …… Omalingwo
Omalingwo, Omalingwo nwam…… Omalingwo
Omalingwo, Omalingwo dia …… Omalingwo
Nne nei di na Otutu-aja-o………..Omalingwo
Elikwue ma yu atuna ngwo ji ……Omalingwo
Ngwo, ngwo onye oma………….Omalingwo

My God, I feel new!
I can still sing it! Oh God I knew!
Omalingwo! Story of the child of a deprived mother
Jealous king’s wives over ready for murder
Murder and deprivation if that will give them a son
To sit on the king’s throne and shine forth like the sun
Story of good over evil. Omalingwo!
A deprived mother’s son.

I giggled as I drove along,
Remembering my tiny breasts, when they formed
And more fortunate girls laughing me to scorn
I remember these things till sadness beclouded me
I am fully grown now; nostalgia overshadow me
My age mates, plus me, all gone to the cities
We can’t assemble again, just like broken pot in pieces
Oh! The Eve’s tempting apple of white collar jobs

I heard Jerome lived and then died in Jos
Killed by religious rioters with missions unjust.
I heard Nwasombia is a head dresser is Lagos
At 52 and still searching? Celibacy is obvious
I heard Nosike is in aviation, head of pilots
Even Chima is now in parliament in Cyprus
Chima, who spoke big English like “opprobrious”

My age mates, plus me, all gone to the cities
No more gatherings, just like broken pot in pieces
Still driving along the lone road to the hamlet stream
Still thinking of beautiful things
The beautiful hamlet serene things.

Copyright © Isioma Esemene | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Bookcase

In the sitting room by the wall stands
Great Grandfather's pride and joy
The glass fronted mahogany bookcase
Scratched and worn, but still majestic
Housing beautiful old books
The choices of generations past
A set of Shakespeare Plays, leather bound
'Great Short Stories of the World' and
'The Lost World of the Kalahari'
Books on Botany and even Hypnosis
With Classics to improve the mind
Much thumbed dictionaries and a big red Atlas
Pictures of exotic places
Stale smell add to the magic
For the curious child.

Copyright © Liz Walsh | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |

Train / Lali Tsipi Michaeli


At the age of 7 I left Georgia as an immigrant to Israel with my parents and two brothers. 
We arrived at the train-station with the feeling of a one-way ticket. We travelled until Moscow 
and before passing one whole day and night in a magnificent hotel we took another train to 
Vienna from there we took a plane to Israel. We landed on another planet. It was mid-
January 1972. Since then from my point of view trains have been symbols of departure. Of 
self-analysis. Of new life. Of loss. Not to mention the Jewish DNA that runs on the collective 
memory of the train-tracks or vice-versa. There is nothing for me that symbolizes so 
strongly the wandering the displacement and human sadness like the train. Even if it's a new 
train racing along tracks raised on columns to allow the world's other creatures non-stop 
transport. When I want to bring these things to light in my memory everything changes to a 
collage of the trains I've seen in my life, in reality as well as in films, documentaries or art-
house. The train has turned into trainness and I don't know to whom I belong.

translated from Hebrew by:
Alexa Christopher-Daniels

in English

in Hebrew (my voice),7340,L-3923511,00.html

Copyright © Lali Tsipi Michaeli | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry |

My Home Town

The county seat,  a place of humidity and musical beats. 
After many years, I decided to revisit my hometown,
Hoping to walk down memory lanes of warm treats,                                         To visit my oldest brother and old friends still around.
Known by many as the birthplace of the blues.
It’s where my folks purchased my first pair of shoes.
Where I first experienced talking from a phone booth.

Where I watched my first movie on the big screen;
Where I experienced my first barbershop;
Where I received my first real job;
Where I ate at my first restaurant.

Thirty years ago, I moved 2,000 miles away.
A popular street corner, fourth & Issaquena.
Cotton gins and cotton bails.
Yes, cotton was crowned king.

There was only room for one king and one throne.
And the ruler ship of queens was virtually unknown.
There were the king and the cash; and if there were queens,                       they would be beneath the king and his cash, and nowhere in between.
I tell you, everything and everyone bowed to king cotton, even queens.
06262015 cj

Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

Way Down South

Poet: Ken Jordan
Poem: Way Down South           
Edited by: Sparkle Jordan
written: June/2014

Growing up
down south 
Florida -

was like
fiesta -

We would
go to

swim, run,

the white 
sand -

soon as 
get home,

It was 
to raid 

farm -

was sweet,

State -

Each day
better than
day before -

had good
times -

box cars,

from old
veggie crate's -



from scrap
wood -

We had
roller skates,

metal one's,

with metal

We made

brown paper 

(using a little 

and water
for glue -

would shoot 
in the fields, 


made from 
bamboo - 

We picked

the Chinaberry 

to use

Pop-guns -

We played
hide and seek,

spinning top,
too -

We even
tried to

just to flirt 
the girls -

We had

to see
the loudest,

the one
who won,

a free
icy cup,

snow cone

would blow
into our



we played
the band -

we would

Rock, Paper,

after each
win -

just before

would run
dirt road,

the corner

Miller street,

to hear 
older boys,


under the
lamp light -

Growing up

the best
of my
life -

We had:

No Internet,
No iPhone,
No iPad,
No Tablet
Lap Top -

Play Station,
XBox -

We were 

what we had -

I remember 
gas stations,

were called

the attendant 
came out,

your car

oil level,

and put 
in your tires 
needed -

When we
got sick

cold or fever -

we rarely
a doctor -

Big Mama's
old folk

was the 

health - 

was a
man -

he sold
candy, cookies,
frozen cups -

rode a


big basket
on the
handle bars -

picked up 

iron  -

He also,

he built

on his
own -

was good

way back
then -

I can still
Peanut man,

walking down
the gravelled 
Carver street

with his 
back sack
full of


"Get your
peanuts here!"

So did
watermelon man,
ice cream man -
milk man
Ice man -

all came

singing out
they had 
to sell -

were the 

that want

Way down
Florida -

Copyright © Ken Jordan | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |


Take a look at the picture books,
watch the news.
Read about it in the papers
the are fighting out of the blues.

Children are dying,
mothers are weeping
fathers are fighting
till this day i know not why.

Barbarians at the gate
pull up the draw bridge too much war.

Children are suffering
what happened to farming, making fine wine and chanting?
building fine structures and singing sweet tunes.
We say we are civilized
by making weapons of mass destruction,
we say we are civilized by sending children to war.

Barbarians at the gate
pull up the draw bridge and flood the carnal
we cant let them in
they are causing problems for the children.

Barbarians at the gate
open up your bible and say a prayer
cause we are of he who is greater than he who is in the world.

Barbarians at the gate
we have to give thanks and praises to the king of kings.
He is the conquering lion of the tribe of Judah

Copyright © melvin beckley | Year Posted 2009

Details | Prose Poetry |

Grandad's Missing

There's a void, now
Where once a steadfast heart beat time
The soul in perfect harmony with life's uncertain pulse
With those who clambered eagerly in solace or in joy
To scale that mighty pinnacle
The Rock, within the bosom of the family

There's a void, now
But marvel at the structure, the firmness of the ground beneath
The strata richly layered with wisdom of generations past
A fault free seam constructing firm foundations
Binding those within the bosom of the family

There's a void, now
A hollow cavern 
echoing the anger and the pain
Trust time; it has no fear of finite elements
The source of unremitting pain
Within the bosom of the family

There's a void, now
So fill the emptiness and catalogue the memories
Harvesting the richness of their meaning
The fullness of the seed sown long ago
To bloom forever within the bosom of the family

Copyright © CAROL ROBINSON | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry |


Children fill in leaking emotional cracks
in home and family's nurturing support
with blind lies of eternal ever after happiness
grasped quickly
before adolescence turns down their light.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

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 |

You enjoy on my pain

Am football,
You kick me I move;
To the direction 
you choose;
Harder you kick 
farther I reach
Yet under your feet;
Made of hide 
Of unfortunate sheep,  
Children stitch,
Then I come in play ground, 
In branded name;
A modern day slave,
Made of slaves,
Have no voice
To raise loudly;
You enjoy on my pain;

© sadashivan nair

Copyright © sadashivan nair | Year Posted 2017

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 |

Two things you don't want

Two things you don't want		9.1.15

If I appeared slightly under the weather
     or if he just wanted a little fun, 	
my dad would ask if I had
     the cholerie morbus*.
If not that
     maybe the heebie jeebies.

Neither sounded like 
     a real ailment.	
I thought he'd conjured up	
     the maladies – "Oh, Daddy."

Do you suppose he knew?

Had he read that President Zachary Taylor 
     died suddenly of cholera morbus in 1850.

Maybe he picked the term 'heebie jeebies'
     from the 1926 Louis Armstrong song of the same title.

We'll never know.
     After he asked I felt better
He made my little bouts brief.	

I think my dad, the finest of men,
     simply enjoyed the sound of 'cholerie morbus'
and 'heebie jeebies'.
     He loved to gently tease and was full of good humor.

*My dad always said "cholerie morbus", not "cholera morbus", which is "acute gastroenteritis occurring in summer and autumn and marked by severe cramps, diarrhea, and vomiting. No longer in scientific use." Sounds too awful for him to have known what it was.

Copyright © Gay Stuntzner | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Cold October Night part 2- Legend of Fred

The air was unusually cold that October night..
 as the children set out for a night of fright….
Dressed in their scariest and mysterious garb..
Running over driveways and yard after yard….
There were goblins, pirates, ghosts and a nurse
Werewolves and vampires that gave out a curse..
And of course the aliens of which there were six…
All screaming out for their bag of treats or tricks…
Some of the neighbors had set up a table..
With cookies and hot drinks and punch with a ladel…
For those that grew weary and chilled to the bone..
And knew it would be hours before they got home…
The wind started blowing, lightening lit up the sky…
That’s when they saw was huge and did fly….
What was that they asked..not sure what they saw..
It turned round and round and spun upside down..
When all of a sudden it stopped and just hovered…
That’s when they noticed it opened it’s cover…
Two very large Aliens from outer space did appear…
Come on children it’s time to go home…Bye ya’all…see you all next year….


Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Fred the legend A costume was found part 4

A costume was found.

it was that of a clown…

could it be they asked..

the one from our town..

where the little red headed kid disappeared..

on a cold windy night back twenty-two years..

It was found in a field not far from here..

By a farmer of pumpkins...the best far and near..

And each year a winner at the state fair…

This farmer named Pete was very proud of his ware..

It was he that made sure every porch was supplied..

With a pumpkin that showed the towns sorrowful side…

Celebrating the spirits and their one nights’ ride

will go down through the years…even when I am older…

For this special cold night at the end of October…

Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

To Mama

Dedicated to my mother who, in my youth, I did not fully understand.. 

I wish my callings be sweet to thee; 
Abate not Oh lady the tenderness I'd missed 
Prolong thy tenderness and never a dreary; 
Your genteel should I suck from thy breast. 
From being a toddler remember I; 
That not so often I heard thy lullaby. 
And thence I asked Oh whence I came? 
I sought for answer; I didn't think ‘twas fine. 
Then years rolled by I attended school; 
Why art thou the source of my ridicule? 
The boys would laugh by what thou hinted; 
That I didn't fit a sport; I couldn't hit a target. 
It confused me much – yeah it hurt me badly 
The way thou saw me was never comely. 
Mama! Oh mama! I beseech thee 
Tell me the truth in anyway thou tell me 
Thou needest not to be subtle in telling the truth 
Let it be that I can have peace in my youth. 
The future is waiting and thither I goest 
Wish me luck; I don't want to be the lowest. 
Oh Mama, Willful as thou art, bestow in me some courage 
That even in my lowliness, I can live my life the fullest… 

                                    Date & Time of Writing: 
                                    October 4, 1988 
                                    12:03am - 10:10am 

Copyright © Jecon B. Nadela | Year Posted 2013