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Prose Poetry Father Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Father

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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 |

Winter of deception

The eddy pulls hard against my torso
panic rises and surfaces, my vsion starts to zigzag
I swim harder in the strong currents of confusion

How did my life become a battle
My father once seemed to love all his children
Now where is the love?
We have to be the dictator to prevent suicide/murder
Begrudgingly he submits to the will of the family
Unforgiving, ungrateful, rebellious
time has the last laugh, my son shouts
I hate you, I never loved you, you are so mean!!
My father shouts, you don't love me, you just want my stuff
You are so selfish!
Tears fall....A heart breaks!

Will this trial end?

Mother says, my daughter has not been to see me in so long, I want to see my baby.
Mom I am here, I was here yesterday! I brought you food! don't you remember?

Life cycles around the eddy, swirls and swirls with no end...

Copyright © Doris Culverhouse | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry |

Your My Dear Friend

We have been together
treasured joy now for many years
we trust each other with our
emotions, with affection, tears,

Any day when you are sick or hurting
I feel your pain - significant other,
when eighter-one needs attention
we help one another...

These mutual friendly feelings
for assistance, approval, support
form our tight bonds,
usually never broken

Sharing visions, time together
we respect each other,
regardless of shortcomings
I know you, "I love you anyway"

Copyright © Perry Campanella | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Friend True Story In 1981

                ~Who What Where~
A friends true story.
One of those days while walking in the mall 
I noticed a camera man running after me
asked if he can interview me about a survey 
concerning those 3 words Where What Who
concerning marriage. Although I am a reporter
I didn't know why I agreed maybe it would 
help other teenagers not to do the same 
mistake my friend did. I had to tell her story.
The camera was on me then all of a sudden
he asked.

What were her plans?
She was still at school the last year when finishing
her studies she was planning to marry her boyfriend
one day and work with him at his Boutique but
her father never liked him as he was not from 
the same country.

Where is she from?
She's from a small state living with a very strict father 
and an old fashion envierment, he always stood in her 
way never allowed her to grow up building her own 
personality he even forced her to get married. 

Who was she going to marry?
She was young and got married to a man chosen by 
her father only met him once following the traditions in the 
old days he was older than her by 25 years.

Where did she get married?
She got married at church the ceremony took place
after that as bride & groom they stood at the door saying
their goodbye to each guest some would kiss some only 
shaking hands.

What happened that day at church?
It was full 300 guests waiting for the bride in a beautiful 
white wedding dress a veil to hide her face she was a virgin
in her hands a bouquet of white roses, held by her dads arm
to walk all the way to be given by hand to her future husband.

What happened afterwards?
That day passed away so quickly she found herself a bride at
his home for the first time the night is here all alone with her 
husband very quiet man there was no champagne no smiles no 
music no talking only his routine ordered her to go find the 
bedroom change in a black night gown and wait for him.

Where did she wait for him?
She searched for a normal bedroom as everything was upside down
everywhere she found one with a single bed undone ugly color on the 
verge to start crying but had to hold back afraid went into bed disgusted instead of dreaming of a beautiful wedding night imagining how her 
evening will progress dreaming of love like a bride would be thinking of. 
She knew how unlucky her life will be since she entered his home.

What happened in that bedroom?
She was waiting he comes in half naked no kissing no talking no 
nothing but sleeping with her in a few seconds he goes off 
walking out from the bedroom to have his dinner back to bed 
turns his back and in a second he was snoring. 

What Who Where the camera man was screaming? your joking,
no sir she was not joking after that night she ran away from his 
home back to her dad and told him seriously what happened and 
that she wanted to divorce him and never see him again.

What happened to her since? Who is she with ? Where is she living now?
She got married to her boyfriend after a few years very happily married.
A joyful ending until she passed away leaving two beautiful well grown up children by now.
I as a writer and reporter i get motivated to write poetry after 
reading the title. But that was a painful story, so sad.

Therese Bacha

Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Somewhere over the rainbow

I had heard this song by an obscure artist, with a twist as it played verses 
of 'Somewhere over the rainbow, with 'What a wonderful' world entwined. 
It's simply melody strummed on a ukalele mesmerized me as I listened on the radio 
in the car.
I remember saying to my wife, "I want this at my funeral." I was morbidly honest 
that way.
Several years later, I was watching an episode of E.R. in which our favorite 
character, Dr. Green discovers he has brain cancer, and a short time to live. He's 
basically given the advice we all wish to avoid. "You don't have long, retire, enjoy 
the time you have left."
 Dr Green, plans a vacation with his daughter, who's relationship has been strained 
since his divorce. For the next three or four episodes Dr. Green and his daughter 
spend his last days surfing in Hawaii. Mending the relationship slowly, to a degree 
of understanding only a father and daughter could know. He's still Dad, and she's a 
teen working on letting go of her resentments.
In the last episode of the story, he's not doing well. He keeps passing out and his 
strength is waning. He knows it's only a matter of days, possibly hours; but doesn't 
share this with his daughter, the scenary is of a bungalo on the beach, white sands 
surround the openness of the primitive bungalo, palm trees speckle the beach, and 
in the distance lies the royal blue waters of the Pacific Ocean.
A day of surfing is suddenly changed as he suggests that his daughter go ahead of 
him, he'll stay back and watch until his strength returns. So he sits in a hammock, 
and watches out in the water as she strolls off to surf, Background music grows to 
this song I'd so loved, by and artist named Israel "IZ" Kamakawiwo?ole and as the 
music is playing softly, the camera pans in on the face of Dr. Green for his death 
scene, and his last breath. The camera pulls back, from the back of his head, above 
the bungalo, above the beach as if we are Dr Green's soul departing this earth.
Yes, I cried like a little school girl as realized that my favorite character had just 
been erased from our show, with no chance to come back for a Cameo... What!? of 
course that's why I cried! OKAY! it was a tear jerker! and the saddest part, was the 
relationship with his daughter was still in repair . Moral of the story i guess-- You 
never know when its your time, so don't hold on to petty resentments, and love 
every minute of life.  

I later learned, Israel "IZ" Kamakawiwo?ole; had also died

Copyright © michael hornschuch | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |

Endangered Trailblazing

Endangered Trailblazing
                                  by Odin Roark

Astride his father’s shoulders,
Like a double decker bus,
There was always what his father saw,
And the child’s gaze beyond.
They learned together
What their senses taught them of reality.

There were so many hills his father climbed,
The boy seeing what was ahead on horizons,
The father focused on firm footholds,
Following trusted forest imprints,
Relying on tradition’s habitude.

This father is long gone now.
This boy of shoulder wonderment
Has grown wise of rugged tracks
Leading to this day.

The day…

A stormy December afternoon
Staring through a digital lens
Atop a mid-town observation deck,
The boy now a man
Stares outs across a skyscraper landscape,
A winterous tundra his father never had to pioneer.

Realizing the Now of navigating
Relies little on the primitive tracks,
When plant,
Parts of the undeniable whole
Determined shelter and food,
Life and death.

The oft missing essence of success,
Impacts little of today’s aspiration,
Whose awareness respects not learned footprints,
Nor hardened determination
To stay true to a right direction,

All too often
Success honors but bushwhacked obstacles,
The opportunity to conquer any and all,
The razed aside,
Inert and live,
Banished and dead,
Leaving many to query
What lens can sharpen that which isn’t there?

Today’s existence is but yesterday’s ethereal presence,
Once preceded by integritous footholds/handholds,
The resplendent oneness of nature’s vast inner-connection,
Now all but buried beneath
A stumbling culture’s duplicitous stepping stones.

Tracks lead precariously to penthouse suites
Where an eagles nest is but a Britannica reference,
A redolent library book of often ignored history
Reminding a father’s boy
Staring through glass-layered revelation
That decisions need pondering past momentary reward,
That Nature’s swirling white layering the once wilderness of discovery
May be foreshadowing avalanche forces
Unrestrained in their ability to bury man.

Pulling his eye away from the telescope,
He considers a wind gust
Lifting snow daring not to confront the ground,
Choosing instead to swirl,
To levitate with perhaps man’s exhausted currents from below,
Struggling to rise through waning memory,
Trajectories of so many devoted fathers
Trusting honest trailblazing would never disappear.


Like the cyclic snows from on high,
Rising temperatures initiate their own revolution.
Endings return to beginnings
Nullifying load and weight.

Time’s undaunted sagacity knows
Once civilization’s latest aspiration expends,
Creation knows no better
Than to invent new trails,
New boys on father’s shoulders,
Tomorrow’s then and now…

Copyright © Odin Roark | 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 |


I'm looking at this lil fella and thinking "reset." He's inquisitive cause his eyes are asking what is this place and who are these people? He'll probably be a stargazer like his daddy describing the characteristics of Neptune. I'd say you don't have a lot of time to get it right. Don't have a lot of time to turn on the light, but when I think about this lil fella's dad, I'm reminded how everything turns out o.k. Little stargazer, eyes so inquisitive, teach daddy love and all its characteristics. Dad, steer him from trouble, make sure he knows the NBA ain't for e'erbody, and a passing grade  with 100% effort is an "A" in most teachers' grade books. Father and son with telescope in hand, look inward and know, greatness, is already apart of you. No matter what you do, never lose sight of who you are. 

Love unlimited,
Stargazer #2

Copyright © TS Lewis | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Track One, Side Two

Track One, Side Two
                          by Odin Roark

It was time.
He knew it.

Like the cuts on so many of his albums,
As he passed through the “got your attention” of side one,
He’d often considered the “time to acknowledge some chancier-experiments” of side two.

Back then, even though he was only thirteen,
His father had been prophetic.
After all, how many fathers would think to give some philosophy
As a birthday gift.

But that was long ago,
And now it was time he finally rejected society’s pre-ordained lifetime marketing blitz on how to live
And allow the oft times sleeper-ideas to maybe awaken discovery.

Just like his career of producing long-playing albums
Creating the safer decisions for side one was only rewarding
When there was risk mixed in, usually on side two.


He was going to welcome the task of searching,
Go beyond the choices he had been living,
Gamble on the unexpected,
Travel down the multitier-senses
Where less familiar ideas
Might muster appreciation for more of a being’s tempo,
And harmony.

When he thought about it…

How enticing that flip side of the so-called normal existence must be
Finding out what one’s unknown appreciations are all about
That discovery of a finger-snapping epiphany
Ready to produce surprises for the future.

Lest he forget
Passing time was becoming more precarious
Making life’s tomorrow a hit
Would require risk of another kind.

He recalled his father’s birthday message at thirteen,
“Embrace the unexpected,
Indulge the inordinate,
Find the willingness to try track one, side two of your days,
It’s waiting.”

Copyright © Odin Roark | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

Happy Father's Day: Your Sweat Is My Increase

your left hand was hard, but your right, gracious putting me in the balance of Love of which its fulcrum is discipline and respect. Your weaknesses were classified just to ensure I see beyond mine Your chastisement was not without pain of which its appreciation is a strong indicator of my gradual maturity. You always guard the gates of my territory like a Centurion and fight against all antigens like a warlock. You taught me how to be complete and provided the staff and Ass as I journey across Life and appreciate. I initially thought of you differently when you gave me the partially made sandal, when you refused to help with the air-tight metal box, when you gave me bone while milk was still my best delicacy when you laughed at me while I'm confused and worst of all, stopping Mum to come to my rescue. I never knew they were task of Life I most needed, finishing off the sandal made me industrious, opening the box, made me determined and never relenting, chewing the annoying bone made me grow up; your scorn and laughter actually made me decisive and rescuing myself made me independent. All these sum up to making me a MAN! Which makes you my Hero and role model. Before I was, there was you; in fact, I am in existence because of you. I've always clinged unto you as my Life's support but you allow me make my mistakes so as to be the best gadget. Your regulation of Mum's affections only makes me be an unspoilt egg. I always increase when you sweat and your headaches are stepping stones to my zeniths. You are such an irreplaceable asset and your love, so refreshing as the evening air. What more can I say and how else can I show gratitude? As much as I know, you need none of these, One thing I must always say is, I LOVE YOU DAD!

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Victorian Christmas

Father Christmas is in the night sky his sleigh and reindeer a silhouette in the moonlight,
He has traveled all over the world to lavish his presents to small sleeping children,
A family has retired and left a mince pie and some sherry, the little ones dreaming,
Mr. Christmas climes up and down chimneys leaving special gifts it is a magical time.

Earlier on this Christmas Eve, many excited little children on their little tippy toes,
Straining to place their stocking high on the front room wall away from nosy grey rats,
Some scarcely reach higher than these rats, frantic that sweets will have bites in them
Older brothers and sisters unhook the stockings and pin them higher up, out of the way

Mother has sat them round a table and coaxed them off to their beds earlier than usual,
Told them all about the story of Christmas and why it is such an important special day,
They sat there wide eyed listening to every word the very young not understanding it all,
There faces rosy from the heat of a yule log burning in the hearth and everything quiet.

They understand that Father Christmas only visits very good and well behaved children,
And the children feel guilty as they cast their mind back over the last very long year,
The children find it hard to hold their tongues hoping Father Christmas won't ride past,
And that if they go to bed without any moaning and go to sleep early he will be very kind.

Laying in their beds can they hear the the sound of whistles, penny-trumpets and drums,
They squeeze their eyes shut tight, just in case it is Father Christmas flying nearby,
A wind blows the downstairs door could that be the reindeer's and the sleigh flying past,
Gradually they tire and one by one drop into a deep sleep the sort only known by children.

In their sweetest dreams they hear the cries of dolls, singing wooden birds, gold ribbons,
The ticking of pewter watches looked at by the rag dolls, toy soldiers guarding oranges,
They are asleep and so very happy the emblems of innocence, at peace on this Christmas Eve,
And when the morning finally comes they are loaded with beautiful gifts it's Christmas Day.

Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Hot Southern Nights

During the time before television came to our home,                                     My dad sat there in his car on many a dark Southern                                 night. And I was somewhere close by, enjoying a wonderful
game of Major League Baseball on the radio.

O, there were several teams in the majors like The Pirates,
The White Socks, and The Red Socks that were popular
teams.  But in my town in Northern Mississippi, baseball                                        was all about the Cardinals, the Dodgers, and the Yankees.

There were many sights and sounds of baseball beaming                                     from radios and television sets.  I must say that I mean                               no disrespect to other good and decent sportscasters,
but Harry Carry and Pee Wee Reese made us feel like we
were there in the stands.

My dad had lots of friends, but two were rivals of the game.
There was his friend, the Yankee man name Mr. Baines;
And then, Mr. Mon, his other friend, was a Dodger fan.
But my dad’s heart was in St. Louis with Stan The Man.

In the memory of my mind, I can hear those games now on radio.                But also, later on, we obtained a television.  With the snapshots           captured in the frames of my mind, I can see the Baseball Game                        Of The Week.

I'm rather certain that neither my dad or his two friends ever graced the stadiums of their teams.  I'm proud to say that it was through them that I developed a deep love for the game.  So in a way, when I saw two games at Wrigley Field in Chicago, they were there also; or when I enjoyed two games of the Giants at Candlestick Park in San Francisco, they sat right next to me.      

They say that baseball is America’s great past time experience;
but for me, baseball was always about ‘now and then’, ‘today, and
‘tomorrow’ too.  It was about a little country boy fantasizing
and dreaming today about what could be tomorrow.
Wr 042010;PS Contest, The National Pastime, Phillip Garcia
also: (Screwed XV11 Contest, Rod Carmack; 10th Pl)

Copyright © curtis johnson | 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 |


They built the underground chamber well reinforced with concrete to the depth of 
three miles into the center of the earth. NO steel girders were used. They did not 
wish to be trapped when the atomics started dropping from the sky. They putt three 
tons of food within reach for everyone to survive. Radiation suits with water in 
drums to be used only in the event of the end of the world. They even used double 
doors like saloon doors which could not lock them inside. But they forgot what could 
happen iff Murphy is in charge. The SILO for this is the right title of this thing the 
SILO for this is the designation of this thing the SILO drifted above them only 17 feet 
away but it could not have been worse it could have been 17 miles for there were 
no equipment down there for them to tunnel up or out. The spokesman for the 
group turned out to be the worst the nerves evident in the strain of her voice there 
is no reason left to us. So now we will die here entombed no one could foresee this 
problem the concrete silo above us has drifted into the earth trapping us 
underground for the rest of our lives. Which recourse will not be much longer now. 
The lifer PFC Hice stepped up to the dirt floor roof just above them he took his 
shovel from his pack then he began to dig slowly at first then faster faster he pulled 
the dirt from the opening letting it fall behind him uncaring he begins to turn the 
tunnel to the west to begin his task of getting to the concrete Wall of the silo. 
NOTHING else matters now to most of them they sought out ways to help him. He 
turned over here he is to sleep then wakes to begin the shovel urging the others 
taking turns to come up behind him with the bucket then drop the dirt into the 
kitchen or the stove they filled up every free spot in the effort to conserve room they 
intended to win this fight for survival now. For where there is one free Man there is 
hope for the others. It took too long to get the concrete tower open. They found 
them there one September. They held open the tower door for the Prime Minister of 
the world. He took one look to the Man on the tunnel floor. He smiled. It is my son. 
He died he gave his life upp here down here trying to get them out he was trying to 
save them. He brought him out into the light only to bury him further. Such is the 
power of men. Such is there intelligence. One huge MegOHBlister.

Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |


I landed down
I dropped down to
My native soil
A tradition met
An initiative into womanhood
I am a woman
And a man I must choose
Norms speaks not of any man
But “The man”
The real man
Is there a man in every man?
Not in the least
The man is my life’s side warrior
My life’s second guard
He must remain the protector of my eggs
This man I search
Amongst all men
He stands tall
With none coming first 
But me, his woman
This man must have a woman in him
The side that gives him compassion
A feminine sense of love
That man I seek
He is the real man
My husband, the father of my children!

Copyright © Victoria Nunoo | Year Posted 2012

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 |

Daddy's Little Girl

Ballerina’d beauty…
She was always on beat and the most fluent mover. Never hesitant to step out onto her linoleum playground, Letting the stage lights beam down at her like sunshine, only refracting rays to intensify her lime light see she… was a dancer. &no I’m not talking about ya everyday tutu wearing mannequin. This one was special. The music was a part of her, she found a rhythm in every void and a tune in all speeches, it could only, flow thru her mind like water through the globe, more than she runs through my thoughts, like the way those greens slips of sustenance fell to the ground as she worked her pole. 
Tragic ending to the perfect fairytale. 
Mommy and Daddy had her dancing at six and in and out of auditions, wishing for her dreams to be realized unlike her own. Praying that her daughter could be somebody important, the next best thing since Broadway, better than Dejan Tubic, another Janelle Ginestra, but daddy had a sweet spot for his youngin. Wanting more for an innocent life and only turned her out of a fantasy. Pushing her on with the hopes only fools in the Ghetto would believe. Graduation day, she crashed hard, spinning back into reality. With no way to pay for her Julliard dream, a fistful of issues, and not a pot to piss in. She was strolling the block one night, and, heard music. Got sucked into the charisma of a strip joint. One second she was on the corner, everything goes black and when she comes to… she’s bare, with enough ones to get a place and put some food in her belly. That night she looked in the mirror… breaking down crying… all the dreams she had, crushed by the nimble fingers of fate. She doesn’t pity herself for long. Her mind’s already made up. “Gotta do this for me…” She rests, and the next day she finds herself back to the club to make more ones and satisfy more customers. It wasn’t the life she chose, but it’s one she’ll never regret, cause always had that sweet spot for her in el Corazon.. and she’ll always be, Daddy’s Little Girl.

Copyright © William Smalls | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |


My father painted
western landscapes and bluebonnets
in a manner that can be described as “primitive.” 
He painted with his heart to stay sane 
in the never-sane world 
of the mens’ tubercular sanitarium.
From what little I actually know of him
he was a man of conscience 
and strength 
and love for his family.
He may have been other things too, 
but I can’t possibly know for certain 
except from the stories I’ve been told.
In these stories he was almost a saint.

When I was twelve he was sent home to die,
although no one told me. 
I remember him lying in bed in our front room. 
I touched his puffy leg, leaving a white dimple.
We laughed. 
He said we would make plans for time together,
just the family,
when he was better. 

One anonymous night 
I stayed with my grandmother 
for no reason I could figure out, 
although I really didn’t give it much thought. 
In the darkest part of that night 
my mother woke me 
to tell me he was dead. 
I don’t remember my reaction,
but I don’t think I cried. 
Men didn’t do that, you see. 
I do remember eating cake after his funeral 
at what I recently heard called 
a “funeral party.” 

I have a way of forgetting painful times.
For a long time after his death
my memory is a blank. 

Now, I am a painter. 
I don’t paint his landscapes or bluebonnets, 
but, like my father, 
it brings a breath of sanity to my world, 
completing the long-delayed circle of his life.

Copyright © Jack Jordan | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |


"Each experience is locked within my heart and only I hold the key..."

“Dad, I’m going to straighten your closet for you,” 
my wife said as she set upon the task of pulling out his 
clothes and refolding and re-hanging each item.
“I have to go to the John.” was his reply.
“OK, you go. Need help?” she asked him.
“No.” Into the bathroom he went.
Immediately out he came again.
“Can you help me with my pants?”
“Sure dad, there you go.”
Back in again but leaving the door wide open this time.
She closed it and went back to the closet.
“Why don’t they put his things back the way they should go?”
Fold, hang, arrange.
“Dad are you OK in there? Do you need help?”
“No. Can you come in and help me with my pants?”
“Dad, you have them on backwards.
That’s why you can’t find the zipper. Here let me help.”
Out they both come. 
A successful mission.
“What do you think of your closet now?”
“Wow! I have the best looking closet in the whole place.”
“Yes you do. I’m going to talk to them about keeping it that way.”
Out the door she goes. 
A new purpose. 
Making things better for her dad.
“She’ll give them hell,” he said to me.
We watched the news for a while and then he got up.
He went to the closet and pulled out some clothes.
After unfolding them and looking at them he stuffed them back in.
Not in the right place. 
He sat down and smiled.

Tony Lane
A Fragment Of Life contest
Written 8/20/11

Copyright © Tony Lane | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |

Fish Lips

My father had a Dick Tracy nose, 
sometimes referred to as Roman, 
beneath which were his thick, full lips. 
His fraternal twin, on the other hand, had thin lips 
(Genes are strange things.). 
I don’t know where on the family tree either inherited them, 
but I do know that my father’s proved dominant: 
I have them, 
my daughter does,
(I no longer have any idea what her mother’s were like.),
my son does. 

I was never aware that mine were my father’s until, 
upon seeing a photo of her grandfather, 
whom she never knew, 
my daughter remarked that he had “fish lips” 
like hers and like mine.
I showed her a photo of her half-brother, 
whom she barely knew then, 
and, yes, there they were.

There are many traits that my father imparted to me. 
Sadly, not all were as wonderful as his fish lips. 
But I’ve been told more than once
that my kisses are soft and sensual. 
What more can I ask? 

Copyright © Jack Jordan | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Death Watch

Death Watch

It was early morning.
The sun was barely above the high hills on the other side of the lake.
I was at the end of the dock slowly reeling in my line.
I could see fish jumping from time to time further out in the water.
However, none came close enough to be tempted by my bait.
My line was now the whole way in.
I decided it was time to give up for the morning.
After all fishing was not about catching anything for me.
It was about watching the lake.
Enjoying the small waves slowly lapping against the shore behind me,
Watching as the last wisps of fog burned away in the warming sun.
It was about looking forward to another beautiful day.

I turned around and zipped up my tackle box that lay on the bench.
I did not want to lose any of my fishing gear.
After all it was my inheritance from my father.
My dog slowly got up from the dock he was laying beside me while I fished.
I smiled at him.
Just like my dad he too would pass on.

I thought back to my last night with my dad.
He had been fighting cancer for a long time.
At least, it felt like a long time to me.
It attacked multiple parts of his body,
His colon,
His kidneys,
His lungs,
As time went by his body slowly wasted away.

He was a strong proud quiet man.
He worked hard all his life.
In fact, even with his cancer he kept working.
Just as he had done ever since I could remember.
Even in pain, he would still get up and go to work at the foundry.
He would come home all coated in gray.
I remember seeing the gray ring in the bathtub his end of day baths would leave behind.
I think about the constant attack his body had to endure.
I remember thinking when I was young he is strong he will never get cancer.
Nevertheless, you see cancer does not care how strong you are.
It does not judge how good or bad you are.
How healthy you look on the outside does not matter.
It just is and it has a job.
To consume all that is good.
All that is healthy.

Finally, in the last weeks he was too weak even to get out of bed.
A bed was set up in the living room.
He could watch television as he lay there.
One of the last joys of his life he could still do.
I was living about four hours away at the time.
I would travel back and forth and spent what time I could with him.
It was now the last week of his life not that anyone knew at the time.
I remember the hospice nurse.
She told me and my mom most would have passed on by now.
She said his pain level, and his morphine levels were the highest she had ever seen.
That was my dad, he could handle pain and his body processed drugs very fast.

It was now Thursday night.
Everyone was in bed.
I slept or tried to sleep on the couch in the living room.
I could hear my dad's labored breathing.
I lay there trying to sleep.
I was going to drive home tomorrow morning I needed my sleep.
I heard the clock bell that was on the church chime twelve times.
I grew up with that clock.
Every night as I lay in my bed while still young,
I would hear it chime softly in the night.
Tonight, it was not comforting like it normally was.
His breathing was all over the place.
He would sometimes mumble or try to say something.
I heard the church clock chime once.
I finally fell asleep shortly after that.
I awoke with a jerk.
I lay there what was it.
I did not hear the clock chiming.
I did not hear anything abnormal.
Then I realized what woke me,
A lack of noise,
I got up checked my dad.
He was breathing but very slowly and softly.
He looked almost peaceful,
As long as I could overlook the gray sunken look in his face,
Not see his wasted once strong body.
I held his hand felt his weak warmth.

I went into the kitchen and made myself a cup of tea.
No one else was up yet.
The sun was just starting to push back the darkness.
As I finished my tea, my mother came downstairs.
We quietly silently ate breakfast together.
The morning progressed.
The hospice nurse showed up as she did regularly.
She changed his bags.
I asked her how long did she think he had.
She said I really do not know.
She said it is a surprise he is still here now.
I nod quietly.
She leaves,
Others some friends some family come and go that morning.
Finally shortly after lunch it is time for me to drive home.
I touch my dad's hand gently.
He looks so fragile I do not want to squeeze his hand.
He grasps my hand with a strength that surprises me.
He lifts his head a little from the pillow.
He is trying to tell me something.
I can't understand him.
The morphine and the pain has taken away his ability to talk.
He keeps trying.
I keep trying to understand, but I can't.
I tell him it is okay not to worry.
He tries harder to tell me.
Still, I cannot understand.
He lowers his head and relaxes again.
I slowly let go of his hand and leave.
It was a long drive home.

I knew my aunt his older sister was going to be there this afternoon.
So as I drove home, I was glad about that.
My dad had two sisters both older than he.
His mother died while he was very young.
His sisters raised him as their baby as far as they were concerned.
They both loved him very much,
Even the one that when they were still kids got mad at dad, for some reason.
She got a hatchet and hit him over the head with it.
She assured me it was the blunt end.
I got home late afternoon.
My dogs greeted me upon entering.
I had two at the time.
They were brothers.
Sometime after I got home not sure how much time passed.
The phone rang.
It was my aunt.
She told me my dad had passed away at about 5 pm.
She told me that he got very restless again trying to get up.
She held him down and told him it was Friday.
She told him it was after four and his workday was done.
Finally, he relaxed.
His breathing got slower and then stopped.
His work was done.

Copyright © Hillard Sarver | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Old Fig Tree

I only sang to the old fig tree
As it trembled under the wind
I promised you since you left
I'll drink grief enough for both of us
I'll open like the gulls
My wings on the  horizon
And under the November sun
I'll wade into a cold Natifah's brook
Inviting your friends who accompanied you in the war
To our old home
Sitting next to our old fireplace
Talking about our homeland,
How the men descended 
Two, three and four toward their death
Talking about storms that flooded homes
About horses that plunged into rivers
So that shadows became frightened in their land
Talking about one who
Still kindles the wet firewood
And how the rooms are filled with soot
After the flames stopped
Talking about what they did
What they couldn't do 
About your heart hungering for holiness
How you passed death twice
Thus death returned defeated  
Once you made from it, a home, a door and a lock.
We'll talk about all of this
Until the wind shakes and the fire is extinguished
Then I"ll recall in my mind
How everything around me was just empty seats
Ah how bitter you are 
O Wind!
When you took all the warmth
All the love in my heart.

Copyright © Fatima Nusairat | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

Fallen from Grace

Fallen from grace, 
no longer do I sit high upon the pedestal that you had once put me 
No longer am I seen as idol or mentor
Nor wanted as provider or protector 
But now looked upon as an outcast and banished from your heart. 

Betrayed by the one who now blinds you 
With a veil of lies and deceit that weighs on your young fragile heart 
With heavy words of animosity and abhorrence
You have been trapped in a malevolent web of hatred and retribution 
Used as an unwitting pawn in a game of emotional chess. 

Your words of respect and adoration 
Have been replaced by venomous accusations of brutality and oppression 
Taught to you by the on who now holds the chains that bind your heart. 

But I will not be vanquished or deterred 
By these attempts to falsify or dilute my love for you 
I will be strong in my resolve and true to myself
I will not let these misguided asseveration's destroy my confidence 
In knowing that my spirit is pure and that one day 
You will be able to break free from your restraints 
And uncover your eyes so you can distinguish the truth from the lies. 

To understand the choices that need to be made in life 
Through your own mistakes and life experiences 

Until that day comes I shall be waiting, 
Ready to stand next to you as opposed to being on that pedestal 
And walk down a new road with you as your friend and equal.

Copyright © Thomas King | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

Education is Power

Who is in charge of our children's education?
What happens when parents don't do their job?
When children have no sense of reading, writing,
till they hit that school room head on?

Who is responsible to initiate, ingratiate, the word,
so language is understood from infancy and
not suddenly at five years old when
communication receives the attention it deserves?

Parents stand up and take notice
schools do not provide the only source
You are your child's first teacher
You are the one who gives him voice.

From you he will learn expression
From you he will learn who he is
From you he will learn his roots
Give him your love and attention.

Provide an environment filled with books
A place where reading takes precedence
Instill in him a joy for learning
With gentle hand and loving looks.

Model the love of learning
read on your own or with
till without even knowing
he'll develop a yearning
to know, to explore, to evaluate
all there is and more.

Copyright © Natala Orobello | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |



Joseph was chosen by God himself,
To be the Father of His Son on earth.
He prayed in the temple and asked,
Why me, what is my worth?

Jesus honored his earthly father,
Did what He was told.
Lived his youth as a carpenter,
As was custom in days of old.

We never knew the love,
 Of a father and his son.
His quiet manner and what he said,
Were not always the same as one.

There is no penalty,
For not knowing a father's love.
He lives a life mysterious,
So we turn to God above.

There is no reward for fatherhood,
No medals, plaques or praise.
Just a world of responsibility, 
For a family he must raise.

A father must be an example,
Be charitable, strong and true.
Reverent to his Lord,
Pass these traits on to you.

The sacred books are full of quotes,
Of what a father should be.
But we are only human,
Our errors visible for all to see.

So as this Father's Day approaches,
A child must determine what it is.
Did we teach you love and honor,
Is God your guide, are you one of His?

May your children show you honor,
May they love you for who you are.
May you be proud to have this family,
Whether they be near or far.


Copyright © Raymond Morgan | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Father: A Great Personality

Father, the statue of responsibilities 
which he's doing with full abilities, 

Father, a hand for the child 
& the first step for the child, 

Father, a superhero for the child 
as he's all done superwork for the child, 

Father, have the great experiences 
don't take tension of child's expenses, 

Father, the right navigator 
& he's the best educator, 

Father, the head of family 
& the great consultant for family, 

Father, the surplus of power 
& he's giving blessings as shower.

Copyright © Amit Dhiman | Year Posted 2017

Details | Prose Poetry |

My father-my superhero

'My Papa-My Superhero''
He is the man full of positive vibes..
He is the man beyond many healthy lives..
He is the man who even in the worst condition smiles..
He is the man who just for his children has traveled uncountable miles..
He is the man whose knowledge is deeper than the depth of mines..
He is the man who is quiet candid as well as honest and is adamant to those who lies..
He is the man who seems to be tough but he is softest by heart in any of life files..
He is the man who inspires me to never give up as nothing is wrong in trying a couple of times..
He is the man whom i refer as most superior because his firmness is never daunted by external shimmers..
He is the man whom i can tag as most responsible as he never let us shed tears..
He is the man who is fond of simplicity as he doesn't care what he eats and what he wears..
He is the man who never stops so that his family do not miss any opportunity which is filled with delight and cheers..
He is the man who isn't just a perfect papa but he is a perfect husband,perfect son,perfect brother and perfect comrade 
for me out of all my peers..
He is the man whose believes transform into truth as he is aware of what is most significant avoiding all trivials..
He is the real man of my life who is the actual winner of all the life based levels..

Copyright © Purva Banthiya | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

In Ten Years

there are too many indiscriminate yesterdays
in my memory
too many I'll do it tomorrows in my
i could blame my daddy for his absence
or I could fault my mama for her negligence
i could put it on uncle incestuous
who caused me to become promiscuous
but I'm a grown woman with plans
to be confident and advance
to inspire people not to become
hopeless mothers
or irresponsible fathers
I'll start today
not in ten years or tomorrow
but today

Copyright © Bridget Martin | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Creation, Curse and Promise

Since eternity past God the Father Son & Holy Spirit dwelled in unity and sweet fellowship.
Then Three-In-One decided to make a marvelous universe with an earth for life to dwell.
Creating an amazing array of creatures was the easy part – the risk was on the last made.
For unlike other creatures, man & woman were made in God's likeness with a Spirit.

That Spirit communicated with God, and harmony reigned as earth was well cared for.
Freedom to do was great – limited by but one tree that the humans were not to ear from.
At that tree, Satan disguised himself as an innocent snake and asked the woman questions.
Did God really say don't eat from this tree?  Well, that's to keep you from becoming like Him.

Look its fruit is beautiful and one bite and you'll know what God does and be Jehovah's equal.
Eve was confused, for this didn't sound like what Adam said God told her, but wouldn't it be grand.
If God is so good, why would he keep this secret from us of being able to be like Him – is He jealous?
The firm, juicy fruit was indeed delicious, and she quickly called Adam to taste, which soon he did.

A small act? Every war, family problem, anger, hatred, lie, killing, stealing, rape, abuse came herefrom.
The beauty of God's creation was now marred with sin that affected every part with death and decay.
God graciously gave Adam & Eve animal skins for no longer would they live in Eden's perfect climate.
From now on there would be sweat for the food they ate and exceedingly great pain during childbirth.
Even their firstborn would murder their second, starting the cycle of revenge and killing that's ongoing.

Yet God also made a promise that one would come who would crush Satan's head while being bruised.
"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God and the Word was God" clues us in to who.
For God's Son Himself would come to teach, heal and offer His life on a Cross to destroy our death curse.
Our sins He would bear and in rising He's seal the promise of eternal life, so great we Jesus' love for us.

For Jesus the cost was unbelievably high, and for us the reward is incredibly great – if we but accept.
Accept that I am a sinner, I've done wrong and need God's forgiveness to live with His perfection.
Accept that Jesus can do what I cannot – change my heart, make my Spirit alive to forever live with God.
This being GOD, the promise of heaven and new earth is sure, though pain lies in between.  Choose now.

For GOD and all creation cry out – this is what life is meant for – to know and love One's Maker.
As humans we live eternally with or apart from God, and His great desire is that we choose with.
But just as an earthly Father cannot force true love, nor does our Heavenly Father – He waits.
Though He made all and knows beginning from end, he waits and yearns that we receive His love.

Then love and be loved by Jesus in life's harshness & delight, sharing that love with other lost children
To work in harmony with the One who made us, makes life new again as our spirit is filled with new life.
There can be dry days when we don't feel His presence, and others so full that we want to shout for joy.
The fact is Our Father GOD, our Savior Jesus, the Holy Spirit, are always with us and never will leave us. Amen.

Copyright © Scott Bronner | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Divine Intervention

Beautiful little girl
Devastatingly beautiful
The birds would start chirping when she walked past
Her mother’s daughter they all said
A mirror image
And suddenly she was shocked by love
5 years old being undressed like a doll
Caressed and bathed so lovingly
Such gentle touches
That no one suspected
Mother found a new piece to her heart
Wedding bells chimed
And a new father was born
5 years old she was…just 5
This beautiful little girl found love in her “new” father’s arms
He held her close, sometimes too close
But no one suspected
She didn’t know this love was pain wearing a mask
She learned that love was…
Shielded from the eyes of her mother
Night visits to her room from her father
Year after year
For 15 years this was the love she knew
She felt invaded, alone and abused
She told her mother
About her new father…the man her mother loved
She didn’t acknowledge, wouldn’t bring herself to see
What the water so clearly replayed in her view
The mother knew, just knew
That her husband would, couldn’t ever
Never…bring pain to his daughter, never
Little girl, what does it feel like to be loved?
It feels warm, and wrong but gentle
Strong hands unclothing you
Caressing your body as if you are a grown woman
With a glorified body to worshipped and pillaged over
Little girl, what does pain feel like?
Closed doors…darkness…my father…naked
Beautiful little girl
Devastatingly beautiful
Pain paraded as love
Molestation masked for discipline
When your daughter cries out
When she cowers in corners
And doesn’t trust the dark
When she says love is just another word
Just another synonym to let him abuse her
Trust what she has to say…
I was that beautiful little girl and now I am a woman plagued with fears
Some nightmares you cannot outrun
And some memories only God can wipe away
The blood of all my pain is on my mother’s hands
"I forgive you"
Beautiful they say…
It’s a mask for something more

Copyright © Micaela Fernandez | Year Posted 2011