Poetry Forum Areas

Introduce Yourself

New to PoetrySoup? Introduce yourself here. Tell us something about yourself.

Looking for a Poem

Can't find a poem you've read before? Looking for a poem for a special person or an occasion? Ask other member for help.

Writing Poetry

Ways to improve your poetry. Post your techniques, tips, and creative ideas how to write better.

High Critique

For poets who want unrestricted constructive criticism. This is NOT a vanity workshop. If you do not want your poem seriously critiqued, do not post here. Constructive criticism only. PLEASE Only Post One Poem a Day!!!

How do I...?

Ask PoetrySoup Members how to do something or find something on PoetrySoup.

Prose Poetry Grief Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Grief

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

If you don't find the poem you want here, try our incredible, super duper, all-knowing, advanced poem search engine.

Details | Prose Poetry |

A SLave's Cry

Stranded in this place
I cannot recognize
Abandoned and lonely
No one hears my cries
AS i walk through this wasteland
Of wilderness and desolation
I am consumed with anguish
I walk this road with hesitation
On every turn that i come upon
The is more pain than at the last turn
Agony and torment spews from my pores
With every step i take more pain i earn
Until i am enveloped with grief
Buried alive on my feet
Dirt in my eyes,nose,mouth,and lungs
I throw up my flag of defeat
Each painful blow leaves behind a deep gash
That is constantly reopened never able to heal
Infection has now set into my heart
Slashes and scars on my body reveals the detail
Of the despair embedded deep in my soul
That tells a tale of a soul so lost
A soul wandering through this wilderness
A tale of what being born black cost

Copyright © April Mitchell | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Big Pillow

Did you ever fall into a puffy big fluffy pillow,
Greeting your back as gravity commands you
And wraps around your entirety?

That moment where all you see is cushion:
Soft and safe is all that you feel
And you hear the rush of air passing you by.

For an instant there is nowhere else,
There is nowhen else, time has stopped
And you wish the moment would never end.

But all too soon you are aware
That you still lie among chaos
And you pretend the pillow is your shield.

Jumping from pillow to pillow
Tring to hide from the world
And you know it’s not real

I wish I could only hear the rush of air passing me by,
My vision obscured by the comforting cocoon  
And to feel someone wrapped around me.

Copyright © Ijm seven | Year Posted 2017

Details | Prose Poetry |

I wish, Oh I wish

A huge monstrous olive tree not giving shade nor bearing fruits, existing in pains and disappointments together with the others, they live is the exact expression of my grieve. Too hypocritical in being aggressive and defeated by the contraceptive of my try condemn and make me believe I'm failure's chief executive. How am I to know that every attempt completed is success' eve? How am I to know that more failure is effective? How am I to know that I ought to be vigilant and be patient like a detective? faulting the situation, myself I deceive and landing in this mess surely wasn't my motive I should have been more creative instead of staying sensitive to my senses and searching for palliative methods of scoring my goal. I shouldn't have used my cognitive functions this way, perceiving challenges as dangers always attentive to the red light when it is in fact yellow. Running away, when the push seems less attractive and summing up the crash to be definitive. For all these years the agony has been an adhesive to my soul. comparative to a privileged bridegroom who outslept his wedding to an undeserving bride. As descriptive as that, mine is even more corrosive. Now I pay taxes to sadness and my regret more lucrative than ever before as nature chooses my heart to be the dwelling place of sorrow keeping my self-ruin well preserved. I've tried to turn back time I've tried to apply similar energy and pretense is now my best talent but all I get is NOTHING! I'm only left with wishes a million times have I made them and a million times more I'll proclaim them but they will all stand as cup-bearers to my constant regrets. as I forever say........ I wish! Oh I wish!

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Suicidal Notes

Do you sometimes wonder about your self identity
seen through your lens for suicidal risk as opportunity?

It interests me that this lens
evolves as we age.

In later adolescence,
we often look in the face of transition
from good nutritional outcomes on a small stage
about to enter more competitively sharkish waters
within a significantly larger landscape.

Or so I focused my lens in my younger lack-time of wonder.
Not sure why or how these same transitions did not also apply
to nearly all those nonsuicidal 18-24 year olds,
enjoying a more Positive Psychology.

But now, in later adulthood,
I more often look in the face of a potential suicide
as one with at best mediocre outcomes
on a too-small stage,
often familial, or lack thereof,
about to enter no stage at all,
thinking maybe why postpone this mortal inevitability
of decay and disappearance.

From younger suicides,
"What would be the point of continuing
this WinLose Game,
when we all feel RealTime drill,
you never clearly win
until you stop losing,
and you never stop losing,
until you stop playing.
Clearly I am about to lose
what I don't feel all that great about
ever having won
at others' expense."

From older suicides,
"What was the point
of taking so long
to end this rigged Lose to Lose
death-embracing game
called life?"

It feels like these despair and suffering questions
co-arise within exponentially more of us,
asking echoing silos
as our encultured Earth moves
into a new revolutionary millennium.

Given the now nearly inevitable demise
of our polyculturally and climatically climaxing
exterior and interior lenses
of healthy hope v. toxic pathological 
and monocultural decline
of ecological
and economic
and political balance,
how do we know
we are more than an overpopulating parasitic blight
riding Earth's mortuary-in-waiting
where Elders remind was once
a healthy regenerative place
to continue living?

Yet it is so important to notice
not only all despairing souls
jumping off roofs
but also healthfully repairing spirits
building polyculturally positive-deviant landscapes
of organic and synergetic opportunity,
cooperative networks of resonant resolve
sounding Time's dipolar appositional
issues of despair as opportunities to repair,
still seeking reasonable,
yet deviant,
hope for shared regenerational vocations,
with WinWin reiterating integrity
between Earth's adaption and humane adoption,
within  history's proposal and culture's co-evolving disposal.

No ego is autonomously responsible
for feelings or thoughts,
ideation or even beliefs.
So it is no one's right to judge feelings,
our own feelings,
the feelings-beliefs-ideas of others
as unacceptable or somehow cosmically dysfunctional,
condemning or worthy of global applause,
taking all we have been given
far too personally,
too unrealistically removed from comparative
and nuancing context
to discern how we might choose to carry on.

It is our responsibility and opportunity,
personally, and as a species,
to notice trends of suffering and despair,
compared to trends of multisystemic health diversity,
polycultural density of nutritional choices,
ranges of harmonic freedom and wealthy cultural balance,
as they appear to reflect
and not reflect
our shared experience to date.

Not to judge and condemn failures and despair,
but to praise our most regenerative successes
and love for equitably accessible hope
to include all Earth's cooperative economy
among our emerging synergetic Tribe 
of curious interests.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |


To the forgotten soul that have ever lived For their families they have lost, a new nation conceived For their ashes scattered, one blood they bleed Blessed by their stories told and memories grieved Loved for their battles lost and wars achieved Their cowardice disregarded but courage believed Their fears covered by their bravery revealed Their sorrow wept, their lives appealed With their bodies torn, one nation they weaved One anthem they sing for lives they screamed In the doom of battles darkness a ray of hope they beamed As our last line of defense, this is how they lead Now count the numerous grains of shapeless sand In the war-torn widow’s hand, understand her internal misery As every mournful tear, they wept is not a locked mystery ‘Cause every jagged grain is a lost memory This simple gesture is a constant ministry That the young blood perishes but the old bones live to tell the tale The more they ask why, the harder the grave fail To cover the brave As they salute, march and wave Not knowing so sorrow they will cave With their blood, they will pave And our salvation they'll save Now on our hearts, they'll engrave “WITH OUR LIVES WE GAVE” Now we say: “LOVING LIVE THE BRAVE!”

Copyright © siza sibiya | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |


When ever I see the butterflies flying
I am reminded of your smiling face,
As I see them taking wing into the sky
I feel emotions which are never displaced

For deep in my heart also live the butterflies
As they come to life within my heart each day
While I count the many sweet memories of you
Which in my thoughts and dreams now stay

The sheer brilliance of their many vibrant colors
Produce a vivid rainbow deep within my mind
Which fills my heart with such an unwavering joy
Allowing me to enjoy them for endless times

And the butterflies will be my dearest treasure
Leaving me never again quite feeling the same
For the peace they bring can never be measured
As on their wings are gently imprinted your name.

Wendell A. Brown, 

Copyright © Wendell Brown | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Baby brot bringer

Incredible! Where could little girl of her age be going under this cold weather at this hour barefootedly and bareheadedly?What could have sent a poor girl she was to street with just oversized slippers she inherited form her mother, poor enough, jettisoned on this two line express road?These and many more were  concerns that agitated my mind.I therefore chose to spy or should i say monitor her;i wanted to know where she would enter and possibly  who she was,stealthily i followed her.It appeared she knew where she was going,the poor girl walked straight without betraying any sign of  lost of destination.Exactly  twenty minutes now that I had been following her,we had passed many streets:Macualy street, Kingsway  and the popular Lord Lugard Avenue yet she moved on.It was at the junction between Broard street and UAC that she forked right; she looked back,i quickly blocked her view as i hid me behind one abandoned lorry in my front,she did not see me. It took us another ten minutes before she suddenly stopped,in her front now was  the city refuse dump were disused items were deposited; she rolled up her cloth and brought out a  jute sack; she opened the sack and brought out a sickle and moved with a zeal to the hill of garbage. I stood behind a container that was put there long time ago by the Council for refuse collection,it was now overfilled           with refuse and this gave me an advantage to hide behind it without been seen by the girl;needless to say how stinking it was,yet i befriended it,it was the only shield i needed now. For almost an hour she was searching through the hill ,it was not too easy for her; first,it was almost dark now, again, the whole hill had been covered with snow but she was using the sickle to wipe away the white substance anywhere she suspected that what she was looking for was. As she was searching she was picking somethings and dropping them in the sack which  was now  half-full . Again, she bent down but this time she did not pick anything rather she dropped the sickle in her hand and began to look at her sole, within few seconds she started coming down from the hill; what could have happened to her sole? At the base of the hill she sat down and held tightly her sole,now I could see her clearer,drops of blood were flowing down off her heel. I could now longer hide myself,i was moved by the sadness that appeared on her innocent face,poor still, she did not know what to do.
I quickly ran to her,she was shocked to see me but still held tightly  her sole. I did not waste  time on introduction but went straight to ask her what had happened to her sole,she told me a broken bottle had cut her there. I bent down to look at the cut,it was not too deep,but deep enough to  affect the poor girl if something was not quickly done. Luckily  i had a nylon- water on me, i opened it, washed the cut and bound it with a new handkerchief I had earlier bought to use the following day when I would be attending the first church service of the year. It was not a perfect first aid but a non perfect  aid was better than none . Now I asked her who she was and what was she doing where we were. She introduced herself as Lisa, nine years and that she was looking for plastics and other polythene materials that she could sell at recycling factory. I asked why she had to do that  she said she and her grandmother had not even a brot at home and if she did not do this certainly they would be starved.  Wondering why she should be responsible for that i pressed , "what about your parents?" " My mother had been abducted by the terrorists who  killed my father and my two brothers three years ago."  Big air escaped my nostrils as I became rock-still with this unpalatable bombshell. Seconds later I gathered myself,brought Lisa up and told her I would help her back home. She thanked me for the help but insisted that she would not be going home now,she must first go to the factory to exchange her stock for money. " it is too late Lisa, i don't think any factory will still be opened by now,besides you now have a cut on your sole", i explained. "The pay master in the factory had promised to wait for me till 10pm, i already had stock with him ,i just needed to add some weight to reach the required purchase-level,i must not fail on my terms lest he loses the confidence that for more than two years now,he has in me ; besides, grandma", she paused as if she remembered a thing, " tomorrow is new year, i have promised her good meal tomorrow" ; her voice cracked as if she wanted to cry,emotion envloped me as the word grandama reverbrated in my ears; my mind wandered about : poor girl,wretched old woman; how many millions of Lisa and her grandma were out there for the stupidity of some? My eyes became red and urge filled my mind,the zeal to confront terrorism,the joy of Christmas and new year in me evaporated; what was merriment of Christmas with millions of Lisa there? What was happiness of new year with millions of her grandma in our World?

Copyright © KAYOD5 Kayode | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Last Supper of Hope

The Last Supper of Hope

Grief has exhausted itself
And pain has abandoned the heart;
Emptiness now lives where joy
Once called home.

Our streets have become cisterns
Of blood—death quenching its thirst—
Flashbacks of the belly bowels of slave ships
Flying flags of crosses and crescent moons alike.

Hell remains without fury—never discriminating;
And Dante smiling—spits in the face of justice.
Today Armageddon sits at the Last Supper; 
May hope be the Bread and Wine.  And 
Judas forgets to RSVP.  

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

Thread of Hope

As all I’d ever termed wondrous bliss unexpectedly died -
As my fantasy of a reality with destruction did collide -
My hopes shattered around me like glass in countless pieces,
Fragments suspended in mocking beauty as time freezes…

The clock hand ticks forward and it all crashes to the floor
My knees hit rock-bottom when I could take no more
All I now see is blackness where once there was color
Gone appears the light from the sun and its fervor…

I begin to walk away from the pond of shattered dreams
But the glass is in my clothes and cutting through my heart, it seems
Perhaps I am too close, the smoke is clouding my full view-
Glance up at the tower, instinctively know what to do…

Run up the steps; one, two,three hundred endless stairs
And I barely catch my breath, or have time to fill lungs with air -
Before the ground beneath my feet crumbles into sand
Loud thunder above me rumbles as I fall back down on land…

And I hit rock-bottom again
Thinking this must be the end
For surely no human can go through this pain
And still see rainbows through the rain…

The whole world seems gray and black tonight
With not a speck of pure, identifiable white in sight
Nothing is untouched, gone is everything -
Then how do I glimpse in that crack a thin white string?

Among the dirt, surely this uncorrupted clean string is not real
But just to verify the hopeless doubts, I reach out a hand to feel
And to my electric surprise, it’s most tangible indeed
I yank it out attached to a note, uncrumple it and read:

“Verily, with every hardship comes ease” [Quran 94:6]

That white thread...
Of hope.

Copyright © Aya Salah | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |



There is nothing left here
for death to claim; even hunger
has abandoned the swollen bellies
and parched skin of the walking dead:
eyes of gigantic pupils sunken deep
into desiccated cranial caverns.

In this fenced graveyard of waning life, flies
soar to and fro---depositing metaphoric maggots
in the midst of the festering wounds of despair.

In this God forsaken place, the flame of hope
grows dimmer with the wrinkling nipples of the breast
of time---her hourglass---haltingly emptying its self:

There is no refuge here
for the refugee.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |



The long hot summer has disappeared over the horizon,
Yielding to the arrival of the cooling Fall.
Despite their approaching fate---the annual leaves’ excision,
the tower trees proudly stand firm and tall.

The steamy sticky sweaty nights have all gone
giving way to the cool ebony breeze;
horny crickets and frogs no longer sing their eerie mating song;
squirrels organize their cupboards in the hollows of the trees;
and mushrooms grow on the graves of the Fall’s fallen leaves.

In the early evens’ mist, sun of change ushered in the close of day
leaving flickering shadows hovering over time’s footprints.
Birds---angels of the sky, have spread their wings and flown away;
leaving behind empty nests to catch the winter’s coming events.

Strange, how nature’s circadian rhythms bring about change;
but in the winter season of humanity, so much remain the same.
Even in the winter cold, sable blood flows from the rape of justice:
No matter the season, the blind goddess remains a scheming mistress.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |


An innocent soul appeared to them as someone who interfered,
But helping and caring were the only things that it ever volunteered.
It stood and gave them unconditional support,
Unbiased and happy , it was comport.
Instead of cherishing the good times ,
for them it suddenly turned into a tort.
Days passed and 
Then, came the moment of truth, 
They didn't care about the soul ,
And busted their cruelty upon it which was so bold.
Saying it was merely a delusion of being nice.
They decided to walk out  leaving it behind, 
Withered and bleeding with cries of its lost pride.
It was like getting unnecessary punishment for giving their silent lives , a 
What could it do now ?
Isolate , kill itself or remain undisputed.
That day was when  humanity lost.
That was the day when the limits were crossed. 
It's hard to find people who live for others,
But in today's world who bothers.
They still sort for crowds of disguised happiness.
Purity of soul and love are now obsolete.
Because in this world no one is absolute.

Copyright © Isha Desai | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

Gator Bait Series 1st Cold Snapped

The wind was blowing when she left the city...

I believe it was twenty below...

Where she was going she already knew...

But... first she had things she had to do...

Get rid of the body that was clear....

There were no options, it had to disappear....

The heater was broken and blowing cold air...

She could feel the ice, building up in her hair..

She had cleaned up the blood as best she could...

As she had hit him hard with that log of wood...

All she had asked him, was to light a fire...

To take off the chill in the house....

Do it yourself if you are cold...he snapped

And while you’re at it get me a cold beer...from the fridge..

It was early morning when she finally arrived at the bridge..

This was his favourite fishing spot...

She pushed his body off the pier...along with his ice cold beer..

And suddenly began to shiver and sneeze.....

Oh well, she said...this too shall pass..

When I get to the Florida Keys..

PS..this is the first in a series..watch for part 2.."gator bait..the dream "

Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Forever I am You

You believe me to be an altruistic man as I smile with sneering reluctance. 
You may think me gentle as I extend my hand in goodwill, but degraded am I as I wistfully watch my hand recoil from your filthy phalanges with its foul clutch. 
You wave me off poised as I stand here in this field laden with perennial flowers as they stir aloft, but unbeknownst to you I berate you as you retreat afoot and go forth from my company into the night. 
You deliver beautiful words in my image unto your friends, but I carry your name with seething indiscretion into the fire.
You entitle me as a "friend", but I explicitly fornicate your secrets as I spitefully scathe and scoff unto you.
You divulge your mysteries but I deprecate them and take exception to your standing as I plunge you within rueful nether worlds foreboding in treachery and wretchedness...
Why? For I have no pride unto you.
You place your life you into my palm and recite proverbs appealing for my heart unto yours, but guileful am I and in wicked glee do I carry unto the grave your beauty with its secrets. 
You inscribe me as a "fiancée" into forever without recognising the falsifier whose witness bears mistaken. 
You smile as your recite dreams aforementioned in times bygone, but I chastise you, and your children do I condemn into hell for their fondling fledgling and fornicated perversions.  

You call me a "friend", but I am forever you

Copyright © Benjamin David | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Feelings Flooding

I guess I don't write how other people do. I don't post pictures of myself and update on how my life is going... I don't have an audience for that. Honestly, I write whatever comes to my mind because it gives the illusion that I'm telling people how I feel. I'm never good at that. I have so many opportunities, but its always the same thing that gets me. How much do they really want to know? When they ask if I am okay, do they want an answer, or is it because it's common courtesy.. I don't get myself, so how am I supposed to get other people? A teacher told me today, after assigning an essay, "It's easy, it's all about you!" ...... How little she knows that I can't write about me. When people say, "Tell me about yourself," the initial reaction I have is always the same. I say that I love writing and reading, and that I love kids and want to be an elementary school teacher. That's it. I'm done then. When I write, my thoughts are incomplete, and I don't write for any other reason than to satisfy all these raging thoughts that will not leave me alone. It's worse at night. Lying awake while the house is silent, all except for the air conditioning that makes a whistle and my ceiling fan on high that clicks because the high setting makes it shake. I count shadows that the trees cast through my window, but it can't push away the onslaught of emotions and wave of loneliness. I have tried many things: music, scriptures, novels, conference talks, silence, writing.. but nothing compares to the feeling I used to get when I would lay on my roof in Maryland and look up at the stars. I felt closer to Heaven somehow, and yet at that time in my life I knew I was very far from it. I'm not there and I won't ever be again, but the loneliness remains. Some people can make me laugh and smile no matter how horrible I feel. It's ironic that I feel alone when I have a best friend like Emma to cheer me every day, but I do. I'm glad I always have people around me during the day. There, I said it. I like people. But I hate them too. I like being alone, but during insomnia periods, awake voices are so very welcome. Sometimes I wish I could tell people things again, but my trust is gone. I cannot lean on others, no matter how alone and lost I feel.

Copyright © Juli- Michelle | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Dayly Anger

night fleeing, sun rising
day born,sad and disappointing
along the way, i often see
deep wrinkles of faces passing by me

little village  big grief
idleness,stinking smells,;and heart full,no relief
coffee,Rami,paper and a bit of everything
time's running like sands though the hand 

Bac,Bef,Pdf and Doc and other stuff
nothing to conceal terrible fate
young,old;senior and little chicks
the emptiness kills them,stupid or smart

gardens neglected,butts,Chemma,and bottles
fights, lost boys,cockroaches,and wild looks
accidents,at streering wheel, rekless
every morning, cries, and wails

horns blaring,trucks purring without end
news,info,and all melting in one
the chaos of the begining is the one in the end
it's a mediterranean country,,,alas !
          however, there's nothing---------------!!!!

Chemma: sort of locally cultivated hashish sniffed or stuffed into the mouth,and used to combat vertigo
Rami: a card game locally spead among adults
Bac: baccalaureate

Copyright © Lonely Shepherd | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Discarded grief

Look at this leaf.

Where did it come from?

Stuck in a mud, like a

discarded grief from a weeping willow.

I like its shape.

Follows my hand. Pair it

in two and you can make a glove

or a puppet doll that says “I love you!”

It’s full of wavy hurdles,

a caterpillar’s slalom track.

Can be frozen, curled or wet,

wears all season’s colors like a traffic light.

Enjoys to float, especially in waters of Hoogvliet

rushes to meet other leaves,

while gives a ride to marsh fleas.

Once it went disguised,

I couldn't recognize it.

Dressed in the lost feathers of

floating white hearts and undived “quack, quack”

pretends to be a Sioux Holy Man.

It may come in different sounds too.

Like a bandmaster, it orchestrates winter winds in dramatic


Or, when a thickening fog occupies city parks

still dark and tainted from night,

you hear a crunchy, cranky sound as it get’s

crushed under lover’s heels or

sporadic brave joggers,

in short sleeves.

Dissipated in the air

it’ll wait for its turn,

to blossom proudly again and stare

how spring Sun in the west burns.

Hey little leaf

you would like to crawl into my pocket

like a sneaky thief?

I’m lonely too,

keep me company

in my autumn view.

Copyright © Maya Tod. | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

A silent song

I waved a silent song
past its strongest heights
For a sating revision
of a shy sound to ignite
Asks for melodic tense,
for its sequence of time 
heaves a better song
and lights up a star-deprived 
regardless of time,
to sign a sympathetic course 
for us in bloodless keys… 
and for the lost keys 
to toe
the empty line
and reside 
in our unkempt places 

Yet reluctantly,
in defeat,
invokes a right
to fill its 
self-declared silence 
with lasting doubt
And braises a cold heartfelt petal
of pain 
To open and fit
a rising reduction of triumph
in different keys

But till then
My best bequeaths to each
of us a silent song
Our second tries aim
a daunting recourse to pasts below
We signed off
in single file
In endless cells, 
walled in our own unforgiving pasts
As they
echo beneath
a soldered 
and silent core of song
While we wait
for the sympathy of 
a melodic distance..
that heaves 
and leaves 
a silent song to die
a second time

Copyright © Lebo Bopalamo | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Call

The Call…

Pain answered the call
you never returned;
Happiness took a dive—fell 
into a junkyard of despair—leaving;
Left a broken heart behind
Streaming threads of tears through eyes
of rusty needles of grief
to mend itself—

And you have the audacity:
(to ask)
What’s love got to do with you and me!

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |



I wish it never happened;
But it did.

The gentle sighs; the warm smiles;
The soft touches; the spoken words:

All setting our minds at ease
And putting nervousness and fears
To rest; then we parted.

With our going, a void presented its self;
Heart, mind and soul experienced a brevity
Of discontent.

Yes we parted.
I wished it never happened;
But it did.

Now awakened thoughts
Generate ecstatic memories;

Ecstatic memories that slowly fade away
Like autumn leaves blowing in the winds,
Drifting on the wings of time:
I miss you dear friend; I miss you.

I wish it never happened;
But it did.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Martyr Girl

The Martyr Girl
Arabic Poem by: Jasem Al-Khafaji*
Translated into English by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)

In your absence,
Dreariness, in every class, 
Has been the prayer of the break..
Every teacher calls your name,  
His voice falls slaughtered, in pain, on his lips..
In every standing and every sitting, 
Your class condoles with your desk..
Without you there, the schoolyard feels empty 
The bell sounds strangled as it tolls for you..
Oh, grief of all schools!
Oh, weariness of all lessons!
Too young to be gone..
Your mother wished to see you a bride..
Vacant was your stand in the lines and rows
For the flag ceremony
And, silently, 
The flag was raised..
The blackboard is missing your words
Saddened with no words to spell
“Dar” … “Door” 
Oh, grief! 
When your braid caught fire,
The kids tried to put it off with your bookcase
Their hands were too small to carry water..
May God help your mother.. 
Your mother, who, in her grief, turned white, 
Like daylight upon your coffin
Your mother, who, with slaps of grief,
Drew skipping squares on her cheeks
Your mother, who raised your hand in prayer to God
Your mother, who used to come to get you,
 At the end of the school day
Your mother, who, not even once,
Received a teacher’s note complaining about you
Your mother, who is wrapping ribbons
Around your pictures 
In madness after you
God help your mother, who, in her grief, 
 Turned white like daylight upon your coffin..

O God, May all bombs be paralyzed,
And all blasts be blinded!
* Jasem Al-Khafaji is a poet from Iraq,
The poem is in Iraqi folks spoken dialect 

Copyright © Inaam Al-Hashimi | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |



I need not wear a rose colored hat of old;
Nor a darkened remnant of today.
The hue of my flesh is evidence enough:

My place in this walled democracy…
Whose water ways are liquid graves
Of generations of my ancestors.

Even within my own ghetto,
It is wearisome to venture around
As the imprisoning guardians
Also stalk and seek here,
The pleasures of the flesh and kill.

The only commodities that we truly own here,
Are the fragile mortal lives we endure;
But they too, are mere entities of damaged collateral… 
That the life bankers may tantalize unchecked;
Or lay hold of at the beckoning of their whimsical will.

Though fixed eyes have captured villainous reapers,  
Let us hark unto reality and be not deceived
By others who must now grieve.  Let’s play this out
With an ever discerning ear…patiently hearing…
Never forgetting what has really happened here.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

I lost my Way

                                                  I lost my Way

                                        I lost my way through life,
                                        Because I refuse to bend with sacrafice.
                                        Left in a world of doom's pleasure,
                                        I missed the mark of goodly measure.

                                        With bad decisions and a rebellious pride,
                                        I dangerously lived on the other side.
                                        Causing my ruin and depliting good,
                                        From lifes golden hand I was misunderstood.

                                        Now I am living a life of sad lies,
                                        Knowing that I've caused my own demise.
                                        Still their is a place I must see,
                                        That my decisions are a real reality..

Copyright © Michael S. Johnson | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Why So Sad

Why So Sad?

Why do you look lonely, 
Bereft and so, so sad?
Has someone been quite nasty? 
Have you been really bad?

What lies beyond your haunted eyes,
Your melancholy stare?
Do you want to tell me what it is?
Do you want to take me there?

Your doleful gaze cements your face,
Your shoulders hanging low.
Do you want to tell me what it is?
Or would you prefer that I go?

I stand transfixed, absorbing your pain,
My breath is quick and light.
Do you want to tell me what it is?
What causes your terrible plight?

What demons grasp your very soul?
Why do they steal your smile?
Do you want to tell me what it is?
This cruel and evil bile.

Can you see through your vacant gaze?
Do you know that I am here?
Do you want to tell me what it is?
And explain what monsters are near?

What has sucked the life from you?
Who have you become?
Do you want to tell me what it is?
What nefarious deed has been done?

Copyright © Gaynor Morris | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Girl Across

Follow the line onto the bus
put in your money, grab a seat
earphones plugged in,
you let your eyes wander

resting your dance on the girl across of you
her head lowered, hair cascaded around her face
eyes closed, sometimes opened - completely void of emotion

The air around her was gloomy,
diffident, curled up into herself
she rested her head against the seat
hands occasionally rising to fiddle with her earphones.

You watch as a tear drop fall
and hide into strands of hair
Her head is again lowered
hands hastily wiping at her eyes.

The bus stops, and she gets of,
walking steadily and confidently-
a contrast to her slight hunch
and her eyes that were fixed on the ground.

Green light - she starts to move
and you watch as your body walked away

Copyright © Bre Varzena | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |


Arabic Poem by: Abdulsadah Al-Basri
Translated into English by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
  In the book of our lives, 
  The trains wrote their eternal epic
  And kept taking our names 
  Embroidering stories and tales around them
  Train for travelers 
  Trains of goods 
  Trains for the wounded 
  Trains for soldiers going to war 
  Trains of death 
  Trains for convicts 
  Trains of prisoners of war
  Trains for water 
  Trains for inspecting stations 
  Trains for lighting
  Trains faster than life 
  Trains ... 
  Trains ... 
  Trains .... 
 And the trains are telling the story of a dream 
  Perhaps in the memory .

  the poem was written in 1999 and published in yr. 2000 in the poet’s second collection titled   ??????  (Topography) .
 Translated into English by: Em. Prof. Inaam Al-Hashimi
 * Abdulsadah Al-Basri is a poet from Iraq

Copyright © Inaam Al-Hashimi | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

I Hope You Know I'll Always Love You

I am what you call a hopeless 
But im also a lost lovers cause, my 
heart belongs to another
Yet in my head a love triangle starts 
to form, the girl I love doesn’t love 
She holds the heart to another and 
mine caged to the floor,
She isn’t afraid to fight for what she 
wants, not even when it comes to 
leaving another man torn
Trust me she’s happy, as that boy 
holds her heart ever so close
Seeing what I shouldn’t I smile as I 
wear my blind fold,
Blind to everything around, lifeless 
staring into air
My train of thought running so fast, 
the second I stop you’ll hear a crash
Derailing my hope, for ever finding a 
love so pure & rare
Wishing I could hold the hand of the 
lover who stole my flame,
Wish I could change the last days in 
which we parted ways,
Realizing now that we can never be 
the same
Finally saying it out loud as tears run 
down my face
You stole my happiness, as I walked 
away that day
But it’s because as of what you said 
I guessed I changed,
Now every relationship has just be 
the same,
No one can seem to bring back that 
Because a love likes ours comes 
once in a lifetime
Well at least it does to me,
But I mean you’re happy with who 
your with 
I mean I only wrote this as I heard 
exchanging “I love you” flow from 
each of your lips.

Copyright © Mark Ramon | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |


For we perceive beyond the rainbow,
Beyond the shadow of gravity holding ISS.
Caught not in a void
But like bees wading in their own honey,
Pollinating space with thoughts …

Our tent did blow from on high
Exposing this nakedness.
They, uncomprehending,
A soul did incarcerate; 
Feeding barest morsels shared with rats;
Though famished eyed her fleeting skirt.
So did she infiltrate his racked dreams?
Spittle healing cuts; kisses soothing bruises,
Milk nourishing hunger … 
Tears washing away grimy sorrow.

Such comfort in the bounds of direst misery …

Copyright © Patricia L Graham | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Last Vacation

The sun seemed to last forever
As we walked hand in hand
My dad and I together
Our feet sinking in the sand

His smile was so bright
As he looked at me
What a beautiful sight
Of the ocean we could see

The South Carolina sun rays
Beat down on our tanned skin
Like we would feel it always
Like the happiness we felt within

The waves crashed on the shore
Grazing our bare feet
Our footprints not seen anymore
As the cool water washed away the heat

We made it to the house we rented
The beach was right behind
The morning always ocean scented
Sunset and sunrise will always stick in my mind

The week was full of relaxation
And sightseeing all around
I’ll never forget that last vacation
Your laughter was a constant sound

I wish we would’ve traveled there 
At least one more time before it was too late
For life has many tragedies so unfair
And you can not dodge your fate

I will always watch the videos you took
Close my eyes as they fill with tears from the memories
For you will never again be able to look
Or feel that glorious ocean breeze

Copyright © Elissa Maes | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

From Yon Darkened Keep

There afar in yon darkened keep,
Beyond my casement high,
Stands the stone of an angel lost 
That yet earthly lingers nigh.
The wind blows and the mist flows 
From the graven chill,  
And thus upon she wanders forth,       
For she loves me still.

O’ to sorrow, to journey forth, 
Hath become her spirit’s end;
To breach amid the nightly mist 
And carry upon the wind! 
The moon glows and time slows,  
As she wanders from the nil;
Thus many years she’s borne upon,
For she loves me still.

My one true love grieves in death, 
Thus she doth not sleep, 
As yet she treks her earthly course
From yon darkened keep.
As the wind blows, the mist flows, 
Forever and ever ‘til, 
And thereupon she’ll wander forth,  
For she loves me still.

Copyright © Robert Liam McCallum | Year Posted 2015