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Prose Poetry Home Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Home

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

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Details | Prose Poetry |

Home from Vietnam

They're getting old now.
They congregate only a few blocks south of where I live.
40 to 50 years ago they were in Vietnam.
Among the homeless they usually move slower,
The weariness of age and of other things,
of drug use and alcohol,
lost loves and families,
bent and broken paths.

You hear about the "thousand yard stare,"
where blank verse and silence show they're not actively seeing,
though now most of the immediate trauma is gone,
they are just lives forever changed,
eyes both hardened and softened,
former aspects compromised,
the hand of war still upon them.

My family had a big house in Youngstown, Ohio,
with a room rented to a nice young guy named Dale.
It was cool because he would throw the football
with me and my brothers, and talk to us.
He had short hair and a little bit of acne.
In 1967 he went to Vietnam, killed within a week.

They tell stories of night patrols, moving through water,
streams rivers rain, mud and sodden clothes,
100 degrees in the shade, bugs, infection, panic,
running through the jungle firing their M-16 behind them,
of the Vietnamese people suffering, the dead lying along the road.

Arriving in-country, the heat blasting you
when you get off the plane, you are told
look left, look right, and then that one of the two men
you just saw will not return.

Our country was then conflicted, and it was harder coming home,
even though the orange fires and the smoke were far away,
you lost a limb and they didn't appreciate it.

There were a lot of booby-traps set,
by the enemy, by the bureaucracy, by the times.

I wasn't old enough to go and I'm not sorry.

Copyright © Doug Vinson | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

Being Homeless

Homeless...   Useless...   Shameless...   Nameless...
These are few names by which I'm known, 
Though I would rather like to be called as Lazarus...
Regardless, let me tell you the truth --
I care less and fear less,
Far less than you, who make those nasty faces at me,
As if I would eat you...
Yet, I ain't heartless,
Sure homeless, but harmless.
Life has been harsh to me, but I ain't hopeless,
I fear God, who has not left me comfortless.
This faithful dog is by my side, all the time,
As are my fellow brothers, who share with me my roof, the sky,
And my bed that keeps changing, 
Nonetheless, I'm satisfied with what I have --
Nothing to lose and nothing to gain.
When I see you all walking about so worried, I can't but smile,
And my fearless smile is sure to render you... speechless...


Copyright © Jo Daniel | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

Show me the way Home (He's coming back) pt.1

      My Bros.' & Sister's the [Book] tell us that we are made in the image of God, made
in the likeness of him.  So why is the World suffering much to much idiosyncricie's whe-
ther you're fat or slim ?  Do you know!! Do Ya!!...  long and many year's ago, Noah
is assign an important task, that being! to build a ship (the Ark) for the purpose that
(GOD) seen the supplication of his creation.  He is sadden that sin enter into evil thought's
of mankind, and the collaboration of their choices brings no satisfaction to the reasonable
reason for Noah being choosen to finished the Ark {no satisfaction}....  My guess is
that Noah prayer's was like, "Show Me the Way Home", Lord, thou reason that the rain 
shall come, makes a consorted effort to save a generation, I am so along.  "Show me the 
way Home".  This-thiss generation ignore's the preaching for a 120-years, now water is
around their necks and the door is (slam!!) shut.  "Slam-Shut".  My Brothers ' Sister's
do you wonder why the likeness is impossible to live up too.  We choose to live to do
our own thing - our own way.  That's O'K from a selfish standpoint.  But for a spiritual
analyzationable lovepoint, sometimes the seperation is somewhat confrontationable.
     So-so my brother, the long way home is a fight that the "Anti-Christ commit to the 
principalitie's warfare against the conscience of your mind and you become blind and
you heed to the warning and now he see's (The Anti-Christ) that you are not strong:
(I'm so all along) Now my sisters that implie's to you also, your fight is a battle the ene-
my approaches from your blindside, and if you're not carefull, "you will believe in all the 
lie's.  (Be Strong)  
"Show Me the Way Home", LORD-show me.  Me and the tall and short one's and the cre-
ated of all children's whether large or small.  When we have fought against the file's of
the enemy, and we all are along.  Before the gap get wider (and ?)  "Show Me the
Way Home".

P.S....This Poem is the first of a two-part initative in God's awsume plan to regenerate a
society of any culture, that we as his children must ask him to "Show me the way Home".

Copyright © John Streeter | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry |


A HOME I never knew a home; Christmas, any holiday were words, merely words. Looking from the outside in. A child, seeing lights, balls, trees, presents, but most of all: family life. Warm feelings coursing me, A longing so unknown, A wish so deep, a wish to be. Only, I still don't. Winter used to be cold, inside and out. The house an unfriendly place. Feeling like a visitor, A child, craving warmth of family life. Wanting to belong somewhere. Silent words on paper form A longing deeply seated. Inside all my feelings storm, Melting hearts, heated This year I have a home; my sister embraces me to her house and her family. No more outside, but in. For once a child, and I can stay and I can celebrate and enjoy family life Small tokens in my happy hands. Wrapping paper, tape, smiles, Christmas tree, love lands. Peace, after years of trials. *** 8th place in contest: THE HEART OF CHRISTMAS Sponsor: Mystic Rose

Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |


God created hands for building things. Sometimes before you build something, you must first destroy something else.

Wildfires are never supposed to be put out. Their sole purpose is to burn the entire forest to the ground, transform living things to fertilizer, making room and preparing the soil for new growth.
It is almost paradoxical, 
that there must be death before birth

My hands have stared the grim reaper’s reflection inside the pool of my best friends blood. An old student I used to tutor told me that I am the best brother she could have asked for
She said she will always love me
This was after I burned every bridge that traversed the gaps between us
Stared at her from across her desk
Told her that she will never be my sister. That our bloodlines will never match.
Our gene pools are just strangers that made the same wrong turn.
I spent so much time trying to find my way back that I never realized I was home in being lost I found something comfortable, without expectations. I only corrected myself after she spoke,
because I heard something familiar in her voice.
She sounded like family.

I have the scarred and wrinkled hands of a senior citizen
I’m only 22 years old
I once got my palm read
This gypsy woman told me that my lifeline should have been cut short when I hit 17.
That was a year ago.
What do gypsies know anyway
I have defied the odds my entire life.
Been broke down and built back up too many times to count
My fingernails chewed raw to the cuticle out of anxiety
I enjoy the taste of my own pain
Sometimes I use my own hands to destroy myself just to see who my real friends are who will build me back up when I can’t do it alone

My hands have a desire to learn how to cook, but I’m not that great.
So when I am alone,
I tend to be hungry, not just for food though.
I starve for someone to talk to
It never satiates, because it’s not you.
I know what it tastes like to completely give myself to someone.
My biggest fear is being abandoned.
When I look into your eyes, I am not afraid.
I need to cook you up a feast of myself, then feed it to you every day for the rest of our lives
Please tell me what I really taste like,
Be honest.

Years after my grandfather passed away, my grandmother moved into my aunt’s house.
Since I was 5, every time I speak to her she asks me:
“Spenser, did you thank God for waking you up today?”
I think to myself, I never did tell my eyes to open themselves. It just happened.
So I don’t know how to respond to her correctly.
I tell her that I love her, that I am writing a lot.
She tells me that she puts her hands together for me every night
Prays that I will get the job I want
I guess some prayers do get answered.
Sometimes two hands in the right position, matched with a conversation with God,
Can change things.
I even accidentally call that place home sometimes.

My dream is that my hands evolve into wolves, become part of a pack and work together with other hands to make a difference
Some days they will be the alpha male.
Full of confidence, at the head of the pack
Other days I need someone to show me the right way to go
Because if I’ve learned anything
It’s that I am not always right
I can not always be in control of everything
The only thing I have ever really wanted is to know
That my hands were truly
A part of something.

Copyright © Spenser Jones | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

Musing or Amuseing Part 1

	Now that time is getting shorter for the arrival of my new home it has put quite a 
stress on Shirlee and Fred.  They have had to do rearranging out at their place in order to 
accommodate my permanent cabin, besides working their full time jobs.
	Friday Shirlee was off and there were some fittings on the skelgas tank that had 
to be replaced before it could be put to use. (Now my days on the Nebraska and South 
Dakota plains I seem to remember our source of heat was called skelgas even though it was 
actually propane. Well that was a day ago I think) We also had errands pertaining to the 
mobile home so I went out and picked her up and we went from there. Actually she has just 
started working 4 days a week, ten hours a hours a day with Friday's off so we usually have 
this day together anyway.
	I started the day with a light breakfast (so we could eat in town) and loaded the 
things I needed to take along and pulled out of the driveway.  As I reached the end of our 
street and was gazing into the sun waiting for the cross traffic to pass I was startled by a 
sight in the distance. Probably a quarter mile ahead of me was a lake and as a large truck 
passed by on the interstate I was shocked to see... The Loch Ness Monster slowly working his 
way horizontal with the lake shore. Totally stunned I was then confused as to which road I 
should take out to Shirlee's. Finally I decided I would take the interstate.  As I passed under 
the interstate to reach my turn off I breathed a sigh of relief as the monster turned out to be 
a tractor with double appendages raised in the air and a cab with a rounded top.  I started 
laughing so hard I almost missed the turn off and had barely gained control as I reached the 
house. After greeting the dogs I proceeded to do a little chore as Shirlee went outside to do 
some of her chores.  When she returned I was all but  rolling on the floor reliving the earlier 
scene. I had shared it with the dog while she was out. After urging I finally told her of the 
incident. Eye brows raised she said, " I wondered for a minute as I didn't realize they were 
land animals too."  With that we departed for town.

Copyright © Marycile Beer | Year Posted 2008

Details | Prose Poetry |

Honey's Light, Gold and Mahogany - Home

Dad looking at that weatherboard house, Old Tooters home,
A thrifty man.. us to him did his brother send,
Saying that the place could do with a mend;
The roof had red patches of pitted rust, the cost agreed, an aluminium spray, as if were new!
A bulge I saw like a big brown bag, ‘those eaves with bees were occupied’ my Dad said,
A bee man was arranged for tomorrow morn.
Off we set early that day to arrive at 8, for to watch the bees and the man perform,
He wore dungarees and a netted hat, and held a pot of smoke as well as that.
He pointed its puffs, ‘the bees were calm’, that’s what Dad said,
The man then moved this Italian swarm, they were productive he said; moreover than the norm,
Before he went saying no to pay, as these bees alone did make his day.
He pointed to the now vacant hive, saying there would 'bee' honey, most pure inside.
He told us cut it clean in two, the lightest colour  would be the new.'.
He then drove off us to leave, me, my Dad and Tooter made three.

We cut it through as we'd been told, there was honey like sunlight, then a ring of gold, the core was darker of long months ago, from each we ate squeezing the comb, it fairly gushed upon the tongue.
The first seemed sweetest, the lightest one, the gold was more subtle onto the palate,
The darker ring also was sweet yet with a herb like twist; it did us treat.
Old Tooter said there was a reason.
For ‘twas gathered in the springs plant life season.
We ate a lot till we felt queasy,
Then Dad said work would make our stomachs more easy.
We set to work upon the tin, scrubbing back rust, and knocking roof nails in;
Then dad spun the flywheel on our new Briggs & Stratton machine, 
Two hours later the roof was all silvered out, Old Tooter exclaimed it was better no doubt.
What Dad had promised was accomplished to the better; the old guy even wrote us his thanks in a letter,
‘Twas 40 years ago that day; on that I ponder as I write away..
Thinking on life, on seasons.. on reasons; just where is 'home?' where does it lie?
Under an immediate or distant sky?
Is it a street, a house, City, or shack?
Is it where you are safe from harm?
I'd say yes, with close good family, like that day on Tooters farm:
I look out a window its now dark night,
Tomorrow brings yet; the soft dawn light.
As I think, I recall a yeasty savoury smell,
Mom’s currant scones fresh baked from the oven; and risen well.
For me all these things are together tied
With what is home real deep inside!
And I know I'll never be parted, from that memory's treasure,
Where love was poured in generous measure..
So if I need to know of if, what, when and where?
I'll take a walk back up memory's stair...
Back to that day of sweetness fresh from the comb,
To say loud and clear; (honey I'm home).

©Joe Maverick 12-01-2014

Copyright © Joe Maverick | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

Murphys' Law

               Murphy wished for a Prince who rode a White horse...
               So she went back to college and took a new course...
               She met a man who drove a green pinto...
               Although he had no idea where his life would go...
               His wants and needs he wanted for free...           
               As he had no intentions of working you see...
               So they moved in together...and she paid the bills...
               He played online games and took many pills...
               While she worked two jobs, and going to school...
               Her friends told her often she was a fool...
               This wasn’t a relationship...this was just bizarre...
               And to make matters worse, he drove her sports car...
               But she explained, he needs me and I don’t want to be alone...
               Besides I have created a most beautiful home...
               The years flew by and no changes were made..
               She graduated with honors, and now had a trade..
               At the firm of Morgan White Esquire at Law...
               This was just the beginning and the last straw...
               She finally came to her senses you see...
               Of her dreams and wishes that were meant to be...
               She now had her “ Morgan “ and her “Prince” you see... 
              A Morgan is a breed of horse...and the rest is history

Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |


On a street long ago 
with a sidewalk and curb, 
Back when houses seemed huge, 
In a child's wide-eyed way.
On a screen porch, played quietly, 
As not to disturb. 
For my mother was having 
A headache that day.

All the front yards were deep, 
Nestled back from the street. 
With a walkway of concrete 
And large, shady trees. 

Every morning, I waited 
to yell, then retreat, 
When the giant man walked by, 
never noticing me. 

All I knew was the little 
They let children know, 
That he lived with his mother, 
On the far side of town.
He was big and slumped over 
And walked very slow. 
Not a person remembered 
Him utter a word. 

As he passed by our walkway, 
I readied my shout, 
Then remembered, "Play quietly", 
Mom's head hurt today.
I recall as he stopped, 
Slowly turning about, 
Then he started his blunderous
Footsteps my way. 

I was puzzled and frozen,  
A chill up my spine. 
When he reached our front steps, 
I could hear mother say,
"Hello Billy", then ask 
if his mom was okay,
As she latched the screen door,
Nudging me back away. 

Mother always recounted 
What happened that day. 
And she spoke of the good heart 
That lay deep within.
It was only that once 
I missed shouting his way.
Billy worried, not hearing 
His four year old friend. 

Gene Bourne


Copyright © Gene Bourne | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |


 HOME. By Ted Bundy

There is a place not far from here where purple maggots are the size of deer, pink frogs are there wearing bowties  and hats, now put your hands together for the rolling skating rats. Green fluorescent tawny owls are snorkelling in the pool,while a wallaby in swimming trunks tries to play it cool. Its also the island where neon zebras are found,they plug into a capsule buried underground, the lions fish for skunks and illuminous crayfish dress up as monks.  Theres a barrel of laughing monkeys and some gigantic leathery snails, cockroaches modelling footie boots,even anorexic whales. 
Spiders in tracksuits riding pushbikes with ease, with a cross-dressing chipmunk flying high on trapeze. Bristly skinned donkeys snowboard on thin ice, and a 5 headed emu shoots craps and rolls dice. Glance over yonder at the transparent camels, their glass humps are crawling with mice, stare at the turtles dressed to the nines, and here comes a beard complete with head lice. Theres some inbred iguanas,and some lukewarm limey lugworms,  snorting clear cider through straws, gorillas dress as men and theres a psychotic hen, taping rusty razors to her claws. Over at the gym, theres  miss matched mastiffs, squashing each other underfoot, and an armadillo in a pin striped suit is trying to pick up a shot-putt. Hidden amongst the undergrowth you might be lucky enough to see, our south american weasel sloth sucking leather splinters from a tree, and theres no need to stare in awe if you see a tartan wild boar,trying to saw his assistant in half, his illusion tricks are a mystifying mix,  guillotine, two nuns and  a bloody  laugh. Up here on the right is our new Bull arena, the atmospheres heavy, ive never heard it meaner, in runs the first one already *****scared,beaten and blind, running in circles and ****ed out of his mind, the poisoned steely spikes creating pus filled blistered sores, the crowd ****ing love it killing Spanish matadors. A family of minks are enjoying the show, sipping their juice and gin, i especially admire their matching attire, its top of the range human skin. This is a change from the norm, a better way of life, a lot more colour,  and a lot less bleeding strife. Its a paradise for sure, and packed with fun and glee, where a hip hop alley cat, a sabre toothed fruit bat, and a clarinet playing koala, will serve you cake and tea. Yes, this is the place where pink Buffalo roam, Heaven on Earth for them, they call it Home.

Copyright © Ted Bundy | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Man's best friend is his dog

 “A Man’s best friend is his dog” 

The phrase receives little refute 
Anecdotal history alone settles any dispute
but he’s just a dog all he needs to be is cute

Trustworthy loyal and dyeing to please                          
in return asking only to sniff around the trees
checking if  other dogs crossed their i’s or dotted their t’s

You bring him home because he is oh so adorable
Now that you’ve stepped in it it’s oh so horrable
making matters worse your mutt is now incorrigible

your dog will figure out how to pass the time away 
waiting for you to come home even if it takes all day
you’ve had to toss the things he’s trashed away
You know all he wants to do is play 
you break out the treats and teach him to sit and to stay
but this is not why he waited for for you all day -but OK

walking and fetching may be good clean fun
but long legged  dogs really love a good run

understanding dogs is not as easy as it seems
dogs like people take some things to extremes

We soon discover our dogs are a lot like us
so get to know him well and don’t make such a fuss 

              In Memory of our beloved Samson 
  see related poem: Tale of the Dog That Licked Me  

Copyright © Monty Newman | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry |



In cosmic dreams,
I’ve waded the Nile
In golden Nubian sunsets;

Felt the warm breath
Of Sahara breeze
Kiss my cheeks;

Made my bed in tall savanna grass
And cooled my soul
In rain forest dew;

I’ve crouched beneath Gold Coast palms:
A palm wine drunkard…
Arms flung wide;

My soul
Has soared 
Atop Uhuru Peak:

I too,
Dream of Africa.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Coming home to you everyday

My best friend is just a few yards away
not feeling well she’s had a long day.
Right now in our bedroom watching a cooking show
I don’t under stand it, she knows all there is to know.

As with every thing else she always wants to do better
she gives it her best even when she’s under the weather. 

My best friend is my most loving wife
She has given me the best years of her life.

It’s been thirty nine years since I took her as my bride
That’s thirty nine years with my best friend by my side.	

A lot has happened since our day in September
some things forgotten but the best I still remember.

I remember the warmth and passion of our youth
I still feel it when I think of you and that’s the truth.

I remember worrying that my job would call me away
all I ever wanted was to come home to you everyday.

Copyright © Monty Newman | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry |

I won't be Home For Xmas

I won't be home
not For Christmas
nor for funerals
not for birthdays
Wanted to never see you
on those days so hard to get through.

When you abandoned the sweetness
and chased your dream into the alley
When you thought it best to see me cry

When your mind changed with the direction of the wind 
I stood there with spit on my finger tips...
holding my hand in the air,Waiting for the winds of hope
to blow your love and loyalty in my direction

Home is a strange city
where no one knows me.
where no one will invite me to sit across the table
and try to smile as I play with my stuffing on china with flowers
As I remember the children laughing and opening gifts.
I remember the long silent ride back to our house.

I think back when I got on my knees
before climbing into our cold bed 
The prayers just uttered coming back void.
Ask God to just let you touch me again
I needed your body-heat to keep warm.
I needed your support to continue on 
for the sake of the commitment.

For the sake of waiting for love to remind you
Even if pity could hold you there..
I would not be ashamed of what you sacrificed
When love had given birth to pity-
I would have held on without pride.

Now I never want to come back to that town.
Where no one cares that you don't love me.
I am in remission.
Alone but it's OK.
Please tell our future to visit me. 
On the seashores. 
The sun warms me in
my new home 
where no one knows me.
All my old friends are 
dead and dying.So...

I won't be home
not For Christmas
nor for funerals
not for birthdays
Wanted to never see you
on those days so hard to get through.

Just my spirit and the ocean.
and one day tell our grandchildren
Grandma will be here walking;
With one finger in the air moistened with spit.
to see which way the wind blows.

Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

City Skin

    City Skin

    A city can be so close, 
    that it leaches into one’s soul,
    becomes a second skin. 
    So said the country-drawled guest 
    on Sunday afternoon talk radio. 
    Tulsa was his skin; 
    he wore it proudly, 
    bragged about it, 
    hoped to die there and stay for eternity 
    (an eternal Tulsa...something to contemplate.).
    I’ve known many people over the years 
    who have taken in 
    the soul and guts of a place. 
    (New York City and Austin 
    apparently make for good skin.). 
    Not so for me. 
    I don’t have that skin. 
    I’ve never taken on the soul of a place, 
    not even the Dallas of my childhood 
    or the city in Oklahoma where I’ve lived  
    for more than two decades, 
    a third of my life.

    I’ve given this a lot of thought 
    since the Tulsa man: 
    I’ve come to the conclusion 
    that the missing component, 
    the reason I don’t have a home, 
    is unhappiness,
    often of my own making. 
    Grief, conflict, and anger 
    have often been the driving forces 
    behind and under and around 
    my leaving this place for that one. 
    Moving is my modus operandi. 
    Leaving is never a problem; 
    it’s relief, a voluntary homelessness. 
    The space between here and there 
    with everything I own stashed in my car 
    is high freedom, 
    the leaving of one life, 
    rolling toward another, 
    time and air and the radio between. 

    Okay, I’ll come clean... 
    I do have an internalized city 
    where I may have once had skin. 
    I found it in 1983 in Kyoto,
    while sitting on the steps 
    of the viewing veranda at Ryoan-ji, 
    the “Temple of the Dragon at Peace," 
    contemplating the 15th century garden’s fifteen stones, 
    but only being able to see fourteen 
    because I hadn’t yet achieved enlightenment,
    wandering through the dappled-light bamboo grove 
    surrounding the centuries-old monastery cemetery. 
    I knew I’d been there before, 
    a monk, 
    my ashes buried beneath one of the stones, 
    cradled by bamboo roots. 

    I almost believe in reincarnation, 
    the living of another life 
    behind the one I currently inhabit. 
    As I understand it, 
    my now-life is based on my then-life. 
    I hope I lived well and kind in those lives. 
    I must have done something right; 
    I didn’t return as a dung beetle 
    rolling around Oklahoma City.

Copyright © Jack Jordan | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

My Home Town

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

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

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

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

Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |


(Tatyana Kasima)

Life is a journey of countless sub-destinations
It’s in stages and phases
Life is a function of time a subset of different season
Wet, dry, winter, spring, or summer
Each is experience one at a time
Life continues as a journey
When the journey is far
I am empowered to keep moving
When every thing seems locked up and become tiring
I received encouragement never to look down but keep focusing
When the sun is at its peak
I am hopeful there is a shade ahead to hide my head
When it’s stormy, heavily rainy or snowy
I know with an assurance
That the house ahead will take me in
Just in a land of different culture and lingual codes
I feel at home because I have a friend that knows, trusts, and believes in me
He is the reason I’m encouraged and the source of my strength
He is the house and home that take me in
He is my beautiful angel sent from above
I bless the heaven for the friend in you

© 2011

Copyright © Joshua Akinwande | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |


     (Apropos A Visit Home )  	

Tired shrimp boats sit moored  
along the muddy banks of the Brazos;
their day’s catch iced down and waiting.

Tormenting mosquitoes flew
from puddles of water
pooled between blades of salt grass,
feasting on the fresh blood
of buzzed home comers.

The aroma of seafood gumbo pots 
saturated the salt water air; and the clinking
bottle caps signaled the gathering of keno players.

Olympian domino players slap their table tops
with rhythms that rival the best of Art Blakely’s
drumming on a full moon Afro Night.

Teams of bid whist players
played musical chairs.

Over chattering voices, echoes of howling dogs
faded into canine whimpers
as Gulf Coast breeze blew sweet memories:

Indeed there’s no place
like home.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |


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

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

Sacred Secular Identity

We all have emerged from one nutritiously multicultural heart,
one sunlight into
one DNA patterned and structuring rhythm compliance 
with resonant RNA.

Predestined to remain within harmonic restraint limits,
yet free within these interdependent limits
to play ecopolitical WinWin healthywealth all day
every day and night
each in our own sacredly native nature way.

Utopia is polypathically multicultural.
We all know what Paradise dreams look and smell and taste and feel like 
to a girl baby in Africa
as to an old gringo in the Americas. 
These are the opposite of Hell,
ubiquitous monocultural excesses melting into LoseLose ecopolitical climates,
regardless of where and when you land and plant and grow on Earth.

What, then, are the ecopolitical merits and demerits
of a social justice,
much less an entire Earth Justice,
that we intentionally take off the scales of value-balance
when blindly thinking and speaking of criminal/victimization justice?

For which of us has never lived in both landscapes,
that of utopian benign intent
and that of environmental terrorist outcomes?

And when do we most need and long for justice,
when we are well fed and among healthy social friendships,
or when we are incarcerated, without family and friends,
without good nutritional food, 
shared meals feeding fertile listening and speaking?

If we seek ecopolitical wisdom,
if we can remember what it is to be homeless,
to become hungry for food and love,
to be ostracized and humiliated for poverty of positive social resources,
all of us remembering our moments with and among and as
economic and political non-elites 
struggling together,
like twins for evil and good,
then we can co-empathically trust
that our best optimal criminal/victim justice
is discerned through ecological, 
ecopolitically balancing,
peace-filling mutually mentored climates of graceful co-arising mercy.

Ecopolitical justice
always begins with (0)-sum Mercy!
I know we're all doing the best we can
but this is not yet regenerative enough!
Not yet healthy enough!
in-between sustainable climates for elites within all us non-elites.

More explicated Interdependent polypathic regenerators
are already empowering cooperatively with multicultural others,
others yet implicately wending our metaphysical way
toward Earth Rights
as Golden Maturing PostMillennial Empty/Interdependent Regenerative Norms.

Norms and rules and laws and values and climates and landscapes for healthier nutrition
for elite victims of our collective pathological subclimates
and non-elite self+other-victimizing criminals 
defying internal/external climate health's opportunities and risks,
appositionally-interdependent as holonically (0) sum bicameral polypathic,
co-arisingly dipolar,
multiculturally eco-criminal and ego-victim alike.

While it remains difficult to define both paradise and pornography,
we know them both when we interdependent/empty
sense them.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

Homeless Schooled

Healthy HomeSchool
therapeutic mindbody homelife,
especially for those who feel and think homeless.

Where we learn how everyone is a parasite.
Some more benign.
Others not so much.
But, still, beyond their bloated enslavement to rabidity
and terror
lies what is left of benign polypathic possibility.

We also listen for our opportunities to become healthier,
more politically and economically prudent, 
loving of gift-grace-forward economies
specially designed for co-empathic and trusting political Hosts
as holonic regenerators 
within Earth's Global Polyculturing Organic Economy.

We explore hypnotic addictions
to monopolistic dreams
and LoseLose nightmares,
to recover lessons
for improving our natural Golden Rules of Discernment,
of mutual subsidiarity,
our Golden MidWay Ratios of holonic complementarity

We explore why Yang-eros
balances, or tries to, Yin-agape
as light dipolar
co-arises dense dualdark nutritionally absorbent learning
within active bicameral love
as synergy generates back toward Alpha,
forward to (0)Mega WuWei Tipping Point.

We learn that just as you cannot successfully communicate with anyone,
unless your journey follows a two-way feedback reiterative loop,
so too you cannot successfully sustain love with anyone
who will not love you back,
so too you cannot deeply trust anyone
or anything
that does not practice co-arising trust in return,
so too we cannot deeply listen to others
and ourselves
and all Earth's Tribes
when Other does not practice co-arising listening
as loving
in return.

We learn the sounds of silent parasites
without homes to heat with fossil fuels,
without cars,
without bloated gleaming assets hoarded in silos of hubris,
while children and other biosystems starve
and die of thirst.

We learn to distinguish the silent benign majority of parasites
from the heavy monocultural footsteps of a toxically enslaved minority,
and what these shyer parasites are saying about all of us,
our organized crimes against voiceless parasites
in our homeless unshelled naked schools
of basic political and economic empathic trust survival.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |


     (Apropos Soon Come)

Heard the chichi budo singing
in the banana walk; heard
the burro braying; and
the mongoose roaming the coop;
smelled the aroma of roast breadfruit,
ackee and salt fish; and
felt the icy cold air tease
the warmness of my body.

Then came the off-beat
pitter patter of raindrops falling
on the roof top, drowning away the dream:
washing me back to the shore of this distant reality.

Self imposed exile rivals
only that of being a refugee;
the thought eased by employment
of the more dignified term---expatriate.
Mocking Odysseus, we wander
the haphazard journey; sadly seeking
stolen ways back to the womb of our beginnings.

Digging deep down into the sacred screaming soul
of myself, I pray and implore almighty Jah---
mek mi not become a  of Sisyphus:

Jesus, mi’a crave ‘ome.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

No Place Like Home

By Curtis Johnson

If one could tour my place of birth
They would notice a place where time stood still
Then they would see a place of humble simplicity
If one could spend one night in the house where I was born
No hot water or bathroom, but cold night visits to the outhouse
Then they would be more grateful, and acquire a taste for more humility
If one could roam the village where I grew up
A place where lightning bugs enjoyed the nights
Then they would walk on dusty grounds of stability
If one could only observe where I had to play
They would see no parks or play grounds for the poor
Then they would pause and share in their kids’ activity
If one could hear the soothing sounds                                                                                                                                  that I heard by day and by night
The melody of crickets late at night,                                                                                                                                and the harmony of roosters crowing early mornings
Then they would experience far less stress,                                                                                                                                       and have a chance with longevity
If one could get to know the neighbors I knew
The dear people I honored, trusted, and respected
Then they would understand the true meaning of civility
If one could care nearly as much as they
People who took the time to love and share
Then they too would love with all their ability


Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Hurry Home

Off I flew, fist in the air
Leaving those villains unaware
Something was about to escape
From underneath my billowing cape
I have to hurry, up, up and away
I’ll return to fight another day
Gaining speed, higher heights
Thank goodness for those stretchy tights
Through the air I hurl my body
To home to go on my very own potty
Through the air I fly like a scoop
Yes, even Superman has to poop

Copyright © Janet Lorenzo | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Mom, I'm home

I can feel my mother’s thoughts
All these miles away
She needs a pick-me-up
So I get on a big machine
Way too big to be in the sky
How does that work anyway?
Centrifugal force attempts to infuse
Your center to your spine
For one moment
The universe holds its breath, 
Then lets out a long howl
And follows along behind, sucked back into place

With a pronounced sum of mayhem
The wheels descend and kiss the earth 
The kind of kiss that rocks your whole existence
A shocking, wet French kiss
A long tongue that jolts you right out of
Taking life for granted

Copyright © Janet Lorenzo | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Our Home Right and Wrong

Earth's Rights
and Lefts
and to
a Healthy Climate;
and please not so much climatic pathologies
for Her
and all her EarthTribal RNA/DNA encrypted species,
extended families,
if you could imagine for a minute
this vast co-in-sedately breathing organic network
hoping together for Earth's Present Future Rights,
and not those pesky Wrongs.

Whaddaya mean?
Earth could have no rights.
It's a planet
not a person.

Oh, great, a heckler.
Just what I need right now.
Excuse me, didn't you give corporations ecopolitical rights of persons?
Can't you see Earth as the ultimate incorporated person?
with internationally protected rights and responsibilities
and ecological authorities
to behave with ecotherapeutic healthy nutritious ecopolitical practice?

I thought so.
Earth wants us to know
She agrees with our ecologists and economists
and our more cooperative multicultural political leaders
seeking to advance healthy-wealthy climates
and recess those too pathological.

She wants us to remember
together we have every regenerative right of therapeutic solidarity
to broadly expand current normative exegesis
of our PermaCultural Golden Rule:

Do to Earth
as She has done,
is doing,
and is cooperatively committed to regeneratively continue evolving
into our future time;
as you would optimally trend HealthWealth Quality Improvement
through WinWin strategies of Cooperative EcoPolitical Systems,
biological outcomes,
as you would have Her continue unto/with you
and all your future and past fellow-EarthTribe
bilateral-binomial-binary-functional dipolar investments
on through all our future healthy multiculturally
cooperative-normed regenerations,
resolutions, etc...

Following diastatically elational, 
bliss-filled beautiful harmonious
irresolutely nonpolynomially exformationally out
away from (0)Core dualdark cosmology,

Predicting regeneratively reweaving healthy
Black Hole MultiFrequencied Blissful
dipolar co-arising
Yang/Yin humors,
climates of health v pathology
in all ecosystems evolving
from and toward
historic-cultural paradigm development,
Creation Stories of myth with logos,
yin as yang,
RightInductive-Recessive as LeftBrain Deductive-Dominant.

Neither natural nor encultured conduct codes
have any interest in healthy v pathological norms and behaviors
of corporations and their rights and responsibilities.
Law and logic are neutral
regarding public health.

I doubt your law is so anemic.
But, if true,
we need to work on that,
preferably in a more multiculturally inclusive-cooperative way
of dialectal discernment
for ecopolitical WinWin choice-making,
as mentored by regenerative Earth's nondual co-arising Rights
of Healthy Nature-Spirit EcoSystems.

So corporate Earth's Rights
are to be exegeted by natural law
as if kosmic karma,
coincidental past cause with future regenerate/degenerate outcomes?

And Grace,
don't forget about our Evangelicals,
Western and Middle-Eastern Fundamentalists,
who themselves too pathologically forget
that Grace is just another word for love.

And Buckminster Fuller comprehended love
as just another metaphysical word
for physical-natural-spiritual-ergodic-ionic-eutaxic
prime relational fractal-octave
harmonic integrating synergy,
like photosynthetic regenesis
as primal relationship of Sun's fertile Light
with Earth's Green/Blue double-boundaried in/out
(0)-soul evolving healthy cooperative BubbleSkin.

You begin with Earth Rights
to end with BubbleSkin therapy?

Recycling of time's revolutions
either has no beginning or end
or these are each appositional faces of 
bicameral EarthElite v AnthroNonElite ecopolitical revolution,
learnin' us some lessons in mutual cooperativity.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

What have I Seen

 have seen bright-eyed daises open and baby yellow buttercups unfold,
I have seen these spreading across water-mead’s a cloth of purest gold,
I have seen white clouds scud across blue skies changing shape as they go,
I have seen storms from a distance rain, lightning thunder, hail and snow,
I have seen pure white sheep graze and lap water beside a crystal stream,
I have seen swallows playing games over mountains in my beautiful dreams,
I have seen wretchedness far from home my longing for peace haunts my mind,
I have seen deepest sadness and search for deep and good memories to find,
I have seen in my dreams I am leaning on an old gate down in a spring lane,
I have seen may time in England and lush green fields turning to gold again,
I have seen yellow pastures where tiny silver waters flow like a silver thread,
I have seen a skylark gently flying high singing sweet songs over my head,
I have seen a dream that in my future I am free to return to my home some day,
I have seen the truth it is all just a pipe dream and I can never find a way.

Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |


How some students grew up on the Computor? 
and can't function in the real world right click the bus mommy and place it at the 
stop it is taking much too long to come around the horn. form method="post" 
This paragraphic is free to be a space bar for mee and ewe. 
option>Sometimes in my fables there is parts and pieces of mye poems this is 
not yellow journalism or nepotism or even bad form eye can copy and paste and 
then add text eye can translate pictures into banners and banners into love eye 
can relate a page to GOD and find a way to enter clouds formed and someday 
eye will make it rain inside this idiot Computor box and it will fry all the electronic 
components of every Computor in the world then we will all go outside again and 
inhale the fresher air. 
Just now eye went to a Bravenet website to make me a new website and its free 
but of course the upgrades would cost me but the free sights is challenging and 
it gave me a code for a welcome type box and it did NOT work as it is in the form 
of a a href not a url. The idea is the webpage would bring me people they would 
sign my little guestbook too bad it does not even relate to the page it won't 
translate at all the code is wrong its backwards to a forum type webpage the url 
is too long. The HEY REF only works on websites the URL IMG thing only works 
on FORUMS how many people have followed links to there destruction. When 
eye got the thing on my FIRST PAGE of HOME the thing took off with me when eye 
clicked it open we went for an internet ride and eye lost the page eye was on NO 
fun. Eye would not want a HOME Computor user to become lost in navigation 
when he was just trying to let me knoe that he had viewed my poems. The thing 
is done the web page that they gave me is very green and nice looking but does 
not do a real function oh well in this Brave New World does anything rally have to 
have a function and so mye gentle reader ewe it seems to mee the eye the poet 
fable maker fabulist like Aesop that eye am just the new proud owner of another 
big white elephant so they will always benefit from instruction of this knowledge 
from someone please open windows as many as yew want and let them learn 
yew some. 

Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2008

Details | Prose Poetry |

Home schooler

I come over home schoolers house
He looks me up and down
am no looker 
But the boy's looking

"So am suppose to help you out or somein?"
I nod without a word
He grins like satan
And im burning up in hell

"So hows it like being home schooled?"
He looks at me,use to the question and knowing the answer by heart
"Ive got free food"
And i laugh,he throws butterflies in my stomach

He sits me down
and he bends down for my bag
And looks up
I seductively say:Are you high?

He nodds
And i gap
He replies:High in 7th heaven
And takes my hand

The next thing i know im trying to get on his lap
But that chairs in the way
He flicks the chair
And he carries me easily onto the couch

But before i could get his lips
He collides onto the ground
his mom staring at us wildly
No more crazy fun for us

He looks at me with a frown
"Sometimes,i wish my mom would leave off school grounds"

***Humour and lips are a great combo=) ***
For a missing friend Booboo who knows awwe to well

Copyright © sajdah al-riyami | Year Posted 2009

Details | Prose Poetry |

Am a homeless man

Am a homeless man,
Whole world is my home,
In street, dump, anywhere,
I sleep wherever I feel;
Seek food from garbage dump,
Rag too I find in that;
For some drives emotions,
And for some lousy devilment;
Some pelt alms,
And some offend saying, 
"Can't he go and work?"
Open rain, storm and cold,
Am immune to them;
None can hurt, not even, 
Offended words of passer by;
No stress, no ego 
And no shame of my life style;
Why I be ashamed?
Am an outcome of failed,
Economy and corruption,
In this world;
Who seek vote,
In the name of repelling,
Hunger and homeless; 
They should be ashamed, 
As they have failed;

© Sadashivan nair

Copyright © sadashivan nair | Year Posted 2017