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Prose Poetry Lyric Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Lyric

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

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Details | Prose Poetry |

The Stiff Upper Lip

It was with immense fortitude that he endured the pain.
His back was arched and head rose as he strode down the thoroughfare.
No one need know what lurked behind his eyes. 
Although in all honesty he wanted someone to know what lay behind his eyes. 
He composed his mind determined to ride this one out,
“Ok…I’m fine…I’m fine…there’s nothing wrong” he kept saying as if it were a mantra.

A few minutes passed. Finally, the steely gaze was drawn across his face. 
His lip no longer quivered. 
His heart no longer tightened. 
For now, he was a detached dispassionate walking skeleton, nothing to call human here!
Even the sight of a mangled kitten wouldn’t render a response.

My manners are now controlling my passion; they are forever in my debt.
Like Wellington, I’m going to have to grin and bear it!   
Throw my deepest love into a raging, scorching inferno, as it will only get in the way of my duty!
I shall never succumb to societies miss giving’s. Never shall I spew forth my sensibilities to the stranger in the street. My convictions are too honest to cheapen that.

A friend, however, has the misfortune or privilege to walk among my thoughts. 
I know that we will walk hand in hand into Daedalus’ Labyrinth, a Minotaur at every corner. Never knowing if we shall return. Nonetheless we do it together.
Judgement is never passed. A grimace expression will never rise from your face.

Only in your presence can I remove the mask. 
Only in your presence can I let my lip tremble.
Only in your presence can I let my heart feel the despair. 

Be that as it may, once I leave the comforts of your abode I shall once again display the stiff upper lip. 

By Michael Mearns

Copyright ©Michael Mearns

Copyright © Michael Mearns | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Sweet River Man

Let's wait for the sunset one summer's day
down by the river where I always liked to play
we can kick off our shoes and bury our feet in the sand
come on please be my sweet river man
We can call the wild geese up with a little dab of feed
or jump in the water a little too deep
in that old Red River we can laugh and sing
take me by the hand, make that leap

Write our names in a heart in the sand
you can be my sweet river man
and I'll be your sweet lady river friend
we can hold on for life and scare the catfish twice
anything’s possible that time of day
my white sundress is a little bit dirty
from that red water that always stays so murky

I wouldn't want to be any other place
than down by the river where I always liked to play
and when the moon comes out tonight
and the stars shine bright
your sweet river lady
is going to sing to her sweet river man under the moonlight

watch those stars shooting in the dark as you hold me tight
until we see the sun start to rise
yeah down on the river where I always liked to play
nothing’s changed much since I was just a babe
but now I share with my sweet river man, my favorite place to play

Copyright © Danielle Wise Baxter | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

Everywhere You Are

God, all the time You are,
everywhere You,
You suffice all…
But I, with my wild stubbornness,
with hunter’s old scent,
look, in myself, for the lack-of-You:
I’d like to see –
in this body, this soul – 
where You are not and what just does lack You,
as I am so sad 
that, like a path of a cloudy pass,
am untrustworthy for my own folks…
I feel how,
from the moss-grown nothingness of the lack-of-You,
there radiates 
the dead insect of my daydream
with its dusty wings…
From the threshold of the nonexistence 
there glitter my great lacks-of-You…
Again, again, from thawed-out snow,
fresh grass covers greenly fields and mountains;
Again, again, from summertime,
white winter dwellings 
are filled with yellow-breasted chicken…
O God, in vain You’re searched in skies –
You are my Earth,
my old Country Seat…
Countless times I have stepped on You 
to cleanse myself…

Copyright © Mariam Tsiklauri | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Love and ice

When I sit alone in my ice block 
And I sing by hunger or cold 
I think,it’s paintfull the process, 
That without you I’m melting 
Buckets of hot blood are licking 
Thoughts as birds fly to you… 
I’m the prisoner of my own love, 
It fetters me and it’s flocking me 
Tramelled in fer of pollar fox 
I sit with my eyes on fire,so they can get 
Something of the hotness of a night in an igloo 
In frosted nord and solitary 
I have no body,what should I look in the mirror? 
Either a mirror I have.i don’t need. 
I mirror and I siwm in your look 
In nights with cold winds 
That blow the ice in your eyes. 
We hug at the end of world 
And your tear,from the pain of the crock of the ice 
Born,it makes a river at our feet. 
The aureole is then a rainbow 
We sit on the edge of the river and we fish: 
Dreams,then we divide them brotherly… 
In cold nights we hunt pollar foxs 
We run on the horses of dreams.Star dust 
Rises in the back the hoofs of horses of fire and wind 
We have no words in our mouths. 
We only have mouths that chew and fire 
Which melt the suplimentar ices. 
When we hold our hands 
The lava flows on snow 
And the fire slowly melts into water 
The rain washes the face of the sun 
The day comes hurried and when leaves 
The night,with small stars 
The fire starts in us. 
You burn slowly in the bed which has no wood in it 
When you show up in the sill of the door 
Un warm smile and the eyes become 
Blue ice,almost white. 
The whole darkness enters to us 
And turns off the vision about time. 
The dawn comes more difficult 
I found myself in your arms, 
In sleep and in dream…

Copyright © pauna oana | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Hot Liquid Love

hot liquid love, 
pouring down from the skies,
splashing into your gorgeous, star speckled eyes,
my heart blows wide open,
and cries out in delight, 
the light of you blinding, 
so warm and so bright,
I'm a heavenly feather, 
floating high, and so free,
drowning deep in your heart, 
love's sweet ecstasy.


Copyright © Jean-Pierre Gregoire | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |

Trolling for Love

I'm floatin in a boat,
in the middle of the sea,
and I've got my trusty fishing rod with me.
I'm trolling for love, 
sweet, soft and demure,
so I cast our my line, 
and my heart is the lure.
come on precious mermaid, 
come hither sweet girl,
hop into my boat, 
and lets give it a whirl,
with our wing tips igniting, 
and our eyes brightly glowing,
deep passion pulsating, 
sweet liquid love flowing.


Copyright © Jean-Pierre Gregoire | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |

Shoulder to Cry On

Little girl don't you cry
Mommas gonna be here for you
To Cry on

You can tell her all your dreams,
She'll tell you what they mean 
And how they could help you later on.

You're a beautiful girl that's what they all say
But I can see it in your eyes 
That you don't
Believe them

So let me tell you one thing
Stay yourself don't ever change

You're beautiful and sweet
Talented and smart
And you're one of the best things
That's happened to me

Copyright © Lindsey Harmon | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |


I run on the sand
in hot summer 
on a shore

The sunlight 
burn my skin
and I swim 
in the sea waves

I look at myself 
like in a mirror
reminding me 
the lost summers

When you're young, 
the time has no end...

Copyright © Ioan Rusu | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

A poem in Labor

Fingers crossed spread wide open 
my brain is in pain/ a gift so pure 
baby rhymes crawl backwards in 
stains/ wrapped repertoires come in 
venomous rap pains/ chemical 
messengers ship signals from one 
cell to mythical metaphoric chains / 
It’s the birth of new chapters/ 
Hormones walk tall through walls 
when summer reveals winter’s 
offspring lyrical babies captured/ 
Guilty are biters cheaters pledging 
the word spread of poetic 
descendents/ dippers snap when dirt
is packed overflowing flows the 
nation is watching the sexiest figures 
of speech/ push push push harder 
the rupture of the membrane 
dropped long before the poem 
started/ push push push harder with 
no worries sleepy awesome tongues 
lay low on Africa’s bosom/ little 
cough drop poems the bladder 
carries only few graceful mothers/ 
the birth of my poems

Copyright © Raymond Ngomane | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Romantic Feelings

Thus thou be kind to let me be
This heart explodes if not said to thee
Words spoken as true as love
By Jove! Ye art sent from up above

Those sweet smiles that make thy world go round and round
Just one night thine heart was not found
Because la belle dame named
Just took it on her arm

Oh I think I have gone mad
To pursue that love I never had
‘Cause I know we art two worlds away
How I wish I could longer stay

Though it may this heart ever throb
But I admit there is a locked doorknob
I can’t enter, stay outside
At that very moment I could have died

I will dream tonight f that very key
And dwell in the world of hyperreality
So that I can subtly see
The thoughts of being together; you and me

Copyright © Mark Daniel Nicasio | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

These Salty Waves Pt 1

What am I supposed to think? What am I supposed to say? All these lies you bottled up come sweeping, crashing with the tides. My footing's gone, the ocean real, but how am I supposed to feel? And here I am, a drowning mess, a loveless lie, I do protest. And here I am a drowning mess. So all those things you said to me? Where they just lies out of pity? So all those things you said to me? Or am I lost in salty waves? Yes I know my future's grave. Or am I lost in salty waves?And now the panic in my head, when I should be tucked up in your bed, reels and reels right here instead.I'm going down, a sinking ship, funny what name drips off my lips. It is not God, or Angles plenty, or even that I'm just damn ready To let go of the hell and the lies. I'm wishing for your gentle eyes. Or at least the way they always seemed, but perhaps that's just this salty dream. I have no clue what I'm to do! A drowning hopeless mess, for you-- think it's cute, and oh so funny, but here's the bitter truth now honey. I'm going down. There is no help. I can't be saved by God himself. I put my life, my whole world of trust, and you've thrown it away for lust. Well what the hell's a girl to do? I'm just so entranced by you!

Copyright © Erika Raiken | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

From Deep Within My Heart

A melody lies deep in me A yet to be expressed epiphany A symphony of Sympathy Tis painful in It’s intensity and has A strange propensity To make tears Rise up… into my eyes It’s a melody Composed of compassion Of love and grace In equal part… Its melody and lyrics arise Fashioned from… Somewhere deep …within my heart…

Copyright © David Whalen O Haolin in ancient Celtic | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

Strange philosophy

i've always been so afraid of flying,
is it my fear of heights,is it my fear of falling?
it's a strange philosophy,
a troubled heart,a shooting star,life's a remedy
for who we are.
oftentimes my hope is fleeting,
so engrossed in so believing,
in who i am ,the calling,
it's a strange philosophy,
that up is down and down is up,
no doubt my truth is your lie,
but this is music,hear the heart.
it's a strange philosophy,
i live in you,you live in me,
you're trying hard to make it,
work it!
you lose your soul and hope it's worth it?
we trusted in whoever we believed,
Jesus died for my own fault,
i heard that all things pass away,
but love like this never fades away.
one last thing,
it is what it is,
a seriously strange philosophy,
all that and so much more.

Copyright © nyamachayi chipawa | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry |


I smiled, I tried,
I rose,I learned,
I planned, I worked,
I dreamed, I achieved,
Life seems wonderful.

I lost, I fell,
I cried,I broke
I have everything , but i got nothing
Still life seems so wonderful :)

Copyright © saranya sridharan | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Words Linger

You speak in a circus of symbols.
Perfection's presentation, alluring with the fact.
Mystery of minds, riddles set to toil in rhythm...
Yes, that's what you are.

You bare diversity, and lustful lore within your smile.
The sincerity of the captured moment adorns you when you laugh,
crinkle up your nose, and proclaim~ you're stoned.

Your quizzical genius is worn upon your brow.
The type that has to season to exist,
yet has been painted on your sculptured face since the age of innocents.
You are my timeless prodigy...
Yes, that's what you are.

You are clothed in sleeves of music above your most sacred instruments, my most sacred 
intruments~ your hands.
Your hands, O' how I could spend eternity kissing them without compromise.
For they create your love-craft, feeding the paper in verse and also creating my pleasures 
so precise.

Ah, your wine scented kisses.
Ever so softly they call to explore my wanton lips.
Tracing, tasting, devouring in feathered licks.
They too create lyric, lyric which sketches your script upon my skin.

The lyric which whispers through the trees and dances on the highest summit of open 
The lyric which sways on the reflection of untamed waters.
The lyric which engulfs the illumination of a full phased moon,
and plays in the honey warmth of the sun.
Yes, this is the lyrics written within your kiss...
Yes, that's what you are.

The echo of your voice entwines the patterns of my thoughts,
weaving an eminent design when you are absent.
The air of your accent charms my perception when you recite to me.
O' sing me your symbols each eve before I dream, dreams of you in purest colors.

A spiritual child, you hold my hand to pray to the Master.
A peaceful dove whom will not cower, when against the wrath of darkness.
A singer of songs.
A creator of dreams.
The madman of my amorous tale.
You touch and taste me in poetry.
You obey my senses and bathe in my 'churchild' serenity.

You are my lover, of love.
You follow me to only be lost within my sanctuary of solitude.
You are the promise of our spiritual breeze, to gently exhale on summer's last wishing flower, 

You are the gatekeeper of my heart's door, that opens the secrets of my spirit.
The true possessor of the mastered verse.
You are my autumn eyes, which blooms a rose eternal.
Forever, I shall feel the imprinted reason of your breath upon my flesh,
and when you whisper your vows to me~ words linger...
Yes, that's what you are.

Copyright © Madelynn TJ | Year Posted 2009

Details | Prose Poetry |

Super moon suite


Material life in the Material World:

Duality in every direction:
As Heaven above is,
So, the earth below:

With every delicate, red, mysterious rose,
A proverbial, wounding thorn ...


Suburban splendor:

A life of "quiet desperation";
Holy apparition, manifestation,
Suburban confession:

One fine, fine house;
Five exquisite rooms inside;
But not one friend 
In any one of them.
One calls through the door of each:
There's no reply; nothing; nada;
Just the sound of the proverbial "crickets chirping".
But unlike the stand up comic, struggling on stage for
A laugh, facing the blank, staring faces of the audience,
One knows there's no one "out there",
Knows one can't "hear them breathing".
There's only solitude,
Only the sound of one's own heart beating,
Finally coming back to one's senses.


Chance, chaotic and mistaken:
Father and child suddenly, unexpectedly -
Trade mutually alienated, hostile glances,
Father versus child, the father the fool -
In an existential fog:

Another small, quiet death,
Saving beauty lost,
A moral universe crashed and burned,
For now ...


Endless summer:

The Ides of August
[Ancient Roman feast day for the slaves]
Sunday, August 13
Summer vacation at the shoreline;

Somehow, girlish and laughing,
Diana in tow, eyes alive;
And there, some way thriving:
Every mother, every daughter,
Every child: Loving, fervent prayers to the Goddess.

And a night like a dream:
Dreams dreamed asleep,
And ones dreamed awake;
The flower of the day time
And the flower of the night.

With gentle whispering, a sigh,
Ghostly pale, water lilies stir -
On a slowly, softly brightening shore -
Awaking, enraptured, basking
In a full moon's timeless glow.

[Above poem in honor of 
Edgar Allan Poe, American poet; writer; editor;
literary critic extraordinaire (1809 - 1849);
And of Fernando Pessoa, renowned Portuguese poet;
writer; literary critic (1888 - 1935);
And of George Harrison, of course, phenomenally influential Beatle;
singer/songwriter/musician; producer; Hare Krishna devotee (1943 - 2001);

Copyright © Gary Onderisin | Year Posted 2017

Details | Prose Poetry |

mea culpa

traducere de: Angela Mamier Nache. 

aujourd’hui dieu m’a rappelé à lui
m’a grondé comme un père en me disant
qu’un ange s’est foulé les ailes en volant
parmi mes mots et je jure que je ne l’ai pas voulu
et dieu m’a cru sur parole
après il m’a rendu tous les mots en retour
et il m’a dit gentiment de les préserver
qu’aucun ange ne se brise plus les ailes
dans leur incompris

Copyright © Gitlan George | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Lost Lake Odessa

My world spins round
too fast most times
from Greek deep roots
on Black Sea ports
to cross Jordan's River
on Catherine's Great
trains meet sailboats
greeting sea planes
flying off to sports unknown
throughout my Lake Odessa Highway.

Where Ottomans
blend Spanish matadors,
heroes for my day
and night bleeds forth
a calvary of force
to please titillating whims
of Lake Odessa's middle class czarinas.

I can't go home again
to places never born.
My mind can roam
and try to swim
and fly to where and what
and whom and why
we might have been
if we had built
a fine fair fortress
for peace that loves to rock
and sing sad songs
of what sights have been
in Lake Odessa.

Instead of gangs
and clicky clacks
we learn polycultured quacks
to flap and honk like Canadian geese,
to transubstand she ate
where America
begins to end
through Lake Odessa's streets.

I'm much too busy
and self-important
sleep deprived
and programmed lose to lose
to win our way
back home again
where Lake Odessa meets.

The role of God
as played by me
writing comic operas
only kids can see
was what I loved
most secretly
in long lost Lake Odessa.

We need a better god for now
bringing peach tree jams
of love as wise
reframes lost loves
to live in jesting jars
of honeyed sweet
corns and thorns
for testing streets
tasting ancient Greeks
on shores of Lake Odessa.

We're coming back
to save each other
from what might have been
without sly rudders,
tipping post from wu wei mothers
to rebuild our crystal castle love
of forms that buzz with life
and tours that sag with history
spinning sprays of licks and waves
lapping soft and sandy
on long gone skies
of sanguine Lake Odessa.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

c est comme ca qu il m a dit

c'est comme ça qu'il m'a dit

écris exactement 
comme je te conseille
haut et fort
que même le vent le comprenne
souffleur fou
qui dit la parole
quand il la dit
et laisse la terre livrée à elle-même
qu’elle tremble
en entendant tes paroles
c’est bon signe
que tu t’es fait obéir 

traducere de: Angela Mamier Nache.

Copyright © Gitlan George | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Adulteress's missing thread

missing threads
She looks outside. The pale moonlight has fallen across the tributary, illusory moonshine,
like an intimate emission, now that the urgency is gone, meaningless. 
She looks inside. The sprawled bed sheet of flesh shines in luminous darkness which she
thinks she is. 
Remember the worth and compare with leaving behind the cords, one son and a lethargic
clergy who divides his self between interpreting the God and being her husband. 
She remembers the cats, the weekend cooking classes and small garden of oriental roses.
The pale moon is always hiding behind the clouds when you need it. The clarity is a burnt
out butt of the cigarette learning to jump overboard. She waves away the smoke. She looks,
once more, inside and outside.  
=© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar

Copyright © Kushal Poddar | Year Posted 2009

Details | Prose Poetry |

Eleventh Fable

 Eleventh Fable     
Author Message 

Age : 53
Joined : 13 Jun 2007
Posts : 719

 Subject: Eleventh Fable   Today at 18:26      

Eleventh Fable 

Eleventh Fable 

The Millionth Dollar 

Charlaxes Fables 

Some people live in misery afraid to spend a dollar bill is one a friend but he just 
won't let it go. The man walks or rides his bike even in the snow not using public 
transportation anywhere he goes. A Child is young too young to knoe just what 
money's for. She takes the dollar in her hand and keeps it never spending it and 
never letting go. 
Song 1001 
Aern't ewe the one that eye love 
Aern't ewe the love the only love that eye have 
Aern't ewe the one that eye love 
Aern't ewe the reason this man gets up 
Aren't ewe the love that eye have 
Aern't ewe the purple cloud 
Aern't ewe the heart of the rain 
Aren't ewe the name in the sky? 
Aren't you the song 1001? 
Aern't eye the one? 
The millionth dollar has been spent the millionth tear eye cried the millionth time 
eye tried to make a song was this one number one thousand one. Time will wait 
for no one let us rule the time with love. 
 Eleventh Fable 

Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2008

Details | Prose Poetry |

Soup And Brain Salad

No, Shar, I'd never heard of it, but I will, i looked it up, and it's got a great rating.  
Sounds good!  Thanks!!  My friend John S. is a horror buff of the first ranking.  He 
was even on the peripheral edges of some things.  Was working with Joe Spinell 
when he died (Joe) from a tooth infection complicated with heavy cocaine use.

Freddy, 'Ol boy- for you I'm sure the words would be "I'm just a boy whose 
detentions were good!..... And, when you med Davy Jones, was that at his 
locker?  Do you really like Burdon?  Have his Mickey Most series??  Regards, tom

Copyright © tom bell | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry |

When The Poet Is Dead

he sits where everybody can't
a spot that suits only the sick
a corner of the garden of old
a settled form,and soul adrift

that man or that shape is human
a look at its eyes tells the poem
it seems to gaze in emptiness
emptiness filled with poetic words

long has he been here ,pondering
over what which or who to mention
the trees that hide the forest grow
and the fantasy mind won't flow

it's not due to a spot devoid of feel
neither a domain close to streets 
but when a poet ceases to sense
he's just a dummy that says nonsense

Copyright © Lonely Shepherd | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Crystal Palace


The gods awoke, as they occasionally do,                 
and found Fred Cross in multitudes, alone.           
Unconsciously aware of their unblamed fault,
they dreamed for him an appropriate abode,                            
a crystal palace flawed through and through                         
with veins of earthy, dark hued stone.                                  

Sequestered by battlements of coldfiery ice,                            
concealed, it towered over existence below.                            
Fred Cross, through mirrored portals viewed                              
the warm chill of life from his lofty abode,                     
and despairingly content he quite often died
exploring the chambers of his intricate home.                             

By midnight's blaze through vacant corridors                   
he paced, stumbling on cobwebbed unrealities,
and contemplated empty passages scrawled                                
in volumes shelved in wormwood libraries.                         
To bed he went at darkened dawn, tired by lore                             
read studiously of man's strong willed frailties.                 

On sunset mornings he slipped boldly outside                      
to sense the roses he could not smell, to bare
his soul to one who cared.  But alas, he could       
not find a single one of all those there
that knew him well enough to share.  He cried
and fled to his castle gate, hopelessly secure. 

The gods returned to their perpetual rest.
Fred Cross lived forever in a palace of death.        

Copyright © Fritz Crytzer | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

~ Cry of the Muse ~

Of-gentle beginning-and tender song ... ! That we would gratify love in its truest affection. Stand stead fast- uphold it yield to no other-duty ... ! To-have our-souls' so-identified-unified coexisting- exclusively-mid-this ... . To-live, would I die to give the measure of my-soul- just-to-have this ... once ... ! So place me within, make me the-essence of-the-art- lay me down carry me off- as I would be a child lost amid the grandeur- of its promise ... ! Allow this ink to consume us be the genuine eminence, what we reach-for through the humble virtue, heart-of this quill ... ! So all may view soar higher, and even higher still. Be captured, taken within deep- far and away beyond- the bitter part of this world, into the true benignity, flourishing and forever evolving, amid themselves ... ! Yes help me build me up, mold me-yes- come find me ... ! Trick me friend by slight of hand bend me- yes break me down shatter me again, and again truly I care-not ... ! Fill this paper in-its preparedness ... innocence ... verity, hope ... with the sweet passion elation of our souls ... ! Yes carry me before this-vision ... ! Restrain me-not ... . Set our-soul-free ... ! Please ... ? That we may gratify love-uphold it. Yes yield-then ... only-beauty ... ! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Author notes Written to the (Braveheart) theme By: Enya The expression of this poem was written from within the greater depths, of my soul. It was a cry of my muse. The passion beside which I stand and the hope through which I write. The joy we both carry for the other, and peace and faith in each other, in which we abide. Before this writing my muse had taken a vacation. So willing, I am open to suggestion. ~ Thank you for reading this piece of my work ... God bless you ... (The reason that there are Hyphens "so many of them") is because I have a computer that speaks them with a faster and slower and higher and lower pitch of voice, giving a certain kind of ebb-and-flow to the work with a softer more fervent and realistic and consistent tone, when I use the hyphens and other punctuation in the certain places that I do, when in telling it what to do. Allowing it to speak in even a moderate voice if I choose. It sounds very free flowing when I hear it, and I can only hope that you will be able to here it in the same way. Thank you for reading and God bless you ... ~

Copyright © James Long | Year Posted 2009

Details | Prose Poetry |

Will you be ready?

When theres a knock on the door
will you be ready?
For all the things 
That's outside the
world you live in?

When the telephone rings
will you be ready?
For everything which is being told
At the end of the line?

When they wake you up
will you be ready?
For the stuff tat happens in reality
And not the for the dreams you hope for?

When they open your eyes
will you be ready?
To see things as they are truly are,
Rather than what you've heard?

When you enter the dark tunnel
will you be ready?
To find light at the end of the tunnel?

Be ready...

Copyright © Rahul C S | Year Posted 2009

Details | Prose Poetry |

It Ends

For G.D

It ends. Good things
always end terribly,
at dawn in his arms
wrapped, silently
or— late in the night
in unchartered apartments
or hotel foyers, over a 
fight. It ends. Good things
always end terribly.

(Abhijit Sarmah, “It Ends” from The Voice Under Silence (2nd printing)  Copyright © 2016 by Abhijit Sarmah.)

Copyright © Abhijit Sarmah | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

behind our eyes

Beauty ,the tormented pain,

hiding deep within.

A web of abandoned emotions,

wasted energies and chaotic dreams.

A dark chastising silence,

engulfed with flames.

murderous contempt, within our hearts,

for our fellow self.


Thick black ashes, entangled in a web,

of Stolen time, and memories.

Learning life's lessons,

harshly, without a forgiving word.


Leaving us gasping, for the breath of life...


Copyright © jennifer hedrick | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |

believe in the magick

Believe in the magick in the power of each thought. For you are like a lovely 
flower, growing in a pot. You can do it, whatever goals you have ever sought 
and you can grow your roots and widen yourself to a great big plot. And don't 
let yourself be put on the spot. And whatever effort goes out is the same as 
you have brought. Takes time sometimes, don't get distraught. It'll be turned 
toward you every deed or need you've ever bought. Smile,you'll be happier, 
that's what I've learned and I've taught.

Copyright © Catherine Marggraf | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry |


The eye decided on a love sonata or an enchilada of a fable made in love.
Eye have a girl she rocks my world she makes me think of beans and things she 
loves so fine she listens so well she does it all the live in tells me what is means 
to love and eye will answer ewe with this tell me what is means to live with 
someone has a love inside a heart and eye depart for worlds unknown when my 
babay calls me on the internet eye positively moan in some sort of whimper that 
she must never here for she will love too much and mabe even disappear. If she 
could see the purple ecstasy my gragon wings leave upon the scars of a 
forgotten past she could not last another day. Someday we will kiss and help me 
then for let me not get much too elder than eye am now for the old man that eye 
become wants to kisss his love and never stop. Someday comes in the movies 
there is love. Most people show out showing out is fine when one is young but 
there is time when a man gets too old to show out much. The weight begins to 
sag and the hanging gardens of Babylon become the south of Franco buttered in 
rum and left in cold too long. Later comes to me most every night most every time 
eye love. Myopia is a universe of ewe.
AS eye am loving ewe eye am loving myself amid the fantasies of youth the 
vagarities of aged mage as the wonderful heart she it is that loves me gives to 
this myself me and eye and all of mee eye cry if left too long upon the shelf 
please add mee to your mix for love is meant to be taken in self graduated doses 
earning kisses we imagine the hearts so kept in tune.
My love is enchilada and love sonata so hotta for mye ewe.
Ewe oph please drink JIMBEAN whiskey make coffee in a plastic jug and learn to 
drink it cold. Hold both hands and kiss them melt the CharlaX meet the man reap 
the love be mye ewe keep the heart what would life be without the love.

Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2008