Prose Poetry Memory Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Memory

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

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Details | Prose Poetry |




These salted memories tell stories
The oceans and seas gave birth to.

Over the tempestuous waters
Echoes from the bellies of slave ships
Ride the tides of history

Spreading ripples over the shores
Of time proclaiming forgiveness
For lost souls.

We sashay along bleached beaches 
Where white sands mask the shed blood;
And splashing waves drown out
The ghost echoes of rattling chains:

We no longer remember
Our beginnings here.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Seasons and Imaginations

Wind so cold.
Fondles my face.
The tears from heaven.
I wonder if i wish
    to stop them
From numbness,
    to waking,
          then sensing.

The little voice in me says,
Wait, don't go.
Stay a little longer. I plead.
Sing for me today, rain.
With the gliding rhythm on my piano,
                                                  I'll play.
Chilly Wind, caress my bare skin 
     with the pure coldness that you bring.
     like it's my first time in the snow.
     the fire tree never fades in the picture.
The yellow sunkissed leaves, too.
What is it about Summer and Fall
    that I can't forget?
Memories. Sweet imaginations.

The chilly rain. The misty wind.
You are here. 
Freeze me with the sharp coldness you give.
Calm me. Maybe, comfort me.
And, if you leave
Will you visit me when summertime comes?
Before it gets too late
   And again I fold.

Copyright © Wendy Meyer | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

I Sat and Pondered

I sat and pondered the things I’d like to forget.
There have been some bad times -
Lost love, both romantic and familial,
betrayals by a few I considered close friends,
and the inevitable hardships of simply living life
including its numerous moments of sheer embarrassment.
I contemplated which of those many examples of life’s trials
I would choose to completely forget. . . 

Then I thought of my step dad, who passed away -
and not so quietly - those several years ago,
his mind stripped bare of any reasonable thought,
and all his recollections, whether good or bad,
reduced to the fleeting images of childhood’s ghosts.
At the very end, was there even a glimmer for him
of the recognition of anything at all?

I was not there at his bedside, but my mother related to me
the wild fear in his eyes 
as he choked for breath while clinging to life
despite his apparent inability to even grasp
one memory that would give him a reason to survive!
Everything reduced to the blind biological instinct
simply to breathe. . .
All who were there at the end with him
were praying for him just to pass
quietly into the night.

With all memory ripped cruelly away
and still  he fought to live. . . 
So how could I ever declare wanting to forget even an iota
of anything at all in my entire life?

Written 1/18/13 for Frank's Contest

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Last memory

Bathed by the ocean blue 
There came a thought…
And it was solely of you.
How you’d dance across the night sky
With palms and the waves, waving good bye
With hopes and lights
All lost and wandering the night
Not at all lost…
But not at all found
I’ve wandered these towns…
I’ve wandered these thoughts,
Where has the time gone by?
No longer you dance…
No longer you play…
Just sit there in the sand
By the oceans nice bay
Dream with me tonight
Dream with me of all the things we once would do
Come back to life…
Just once…
Dance with me one last time
Beside the oceans blue
Come back to life…
Give me one last memory of you

Copyright © Jessica Kuilan | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

embers of memory

embers of memory- solitude
a rugby inside me trembling
jerking off seeds, heat yolk
furtive cells melt in furnace

a secret pleasure perfumes
a little room an eve garden
my son learned how to erect
shadows still lurk -odorous

I felt soft sea froths salty
mammary pain oozing silk
oysters and lemons, orange
saffron, blue vain of throb

there I lay my child sinks
night chilly never had winks

Copyright © RAJAT KANTI CHAKRABARTY | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

Remember Me Like this

Remember me (like this)… A smile that made your heart Feel lighter A word that made your Day brighter An embrace you only wanted To be tighter Please remember me… Like this Forget the frowns Forget the pouts Forget the downs The angry bouts Forget the times I wasn’t there Forgive me for that Frigid stare and… Remember me like this… A hug whenever you Needed one A back rub… late at night A place to go to When you felt so low A touch that felt So right Remember me… The provider for the family Companion always there Old friend and confidante Cuddly Teddy bear Gentle soul with good intentions A moral man who could not lie Humble man with no pretensions A man you can’t forget, even if you try A stubborn man…I’ll give you this A simple man…tho’ a bit remiss A man always ready with a tender kiss So when, (and if…) you reminisce Please remember me …Like this…

Copyright © David Whalen O Haolin in ancient Celtic | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |


It was July when I watched an elderly man Lounging on the same bench to gather his thoughts, As fingers picked worn-out notes…bowing low Seemingly atoning for his charmed one’s teardrops, done: In the fringe of nightfall, I began my warm approach While this stranger rolled on, hoping dreaming His wife were around… a tired soul in need of love. Every time I asked why, the old man shrugged, “ Because, because”--- his voice trailing off While we counted young stars on flight above… His face mildly glowed from the sheen Of moonlight: from his pocket, another letter blew, Signed by his dear Roselyn, with a litany of praise For a woman who cherished all their moments Through rain and silence: how the fondness In his eyes brought me to embrace My own tears after my Mama kissed the clouds, Same month as this… unknowingly, He buzzed a tune Roselyn and Mom adored, As if fate allowed us to drench in floats of serendipity. My Fondest Memory: Frank Herrera 12/14/2016

Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

Hummingbirds and Snowflakes

Ordinary…yet precious moments That adhere ardently To one’s heart Points in time that Without reason or rhyme Become outstanding… and stand apart A trio of quarrelsome hummingbirds Outside of one’s window Tentative, timid… first flakes of snow Playful puppies fighting over toys Prickly Hummers and puppies alike Naught but bickersome boys Just an ordinary moment, in an ordinary day ordinary ol’ man and his ordinary wife An ordinary daughter, an ordinary life This ordinary day…becomes a memory And in turn becomes extraordinary By some strange happenstance A happy memory of Hummingbirds And puppies and daughter’s pleasant company ..and snowflakes that dance…

Copyright © David Whalen O Haolin in ancient Celtic | Year Posted 2017

Details | Prose Poetry |



Tanglewood untangled me, took my breath away
each moment of Sibelius, Mahler, Rachmaninoff 
sweet violins, trumpets, kettle drums, cellos, fire
mixed with wind, echoing within the shed, over
the lawn, concert goers sprawled on blankets,
seated on beach chairs attentive to every sound

those strains, my favorite classics, filled my blood
stream, inched me toward lovers, tugged me,
two spouses proposed, suitors hugged my body,
kissed me with gusto, whispered into my ears,
became surrogates for melting chocolate cream,

weakened my knees, laid bare my breasts, filled
my groin, all from the moment my father took
our family to the shed where I first heard Mahler’s
First “The Titan”, not on a scratchy 78 platter, not
from our wood cabinet radio in our Brooklyn house

the melodies of democracy, free radio, modern
media, fade, assaulted by the Kremlin loving
leader. Russian composers crowd the classical
repertoire, do not taint my delight, my passion,
for the memories of past affairs are Picasso art
filtered through Stravinsky, Prokofiev, and one

  therapist treating me for TRUMPRESSION   

Copyright © GINA VITOLO | Year Posted 2017

Details | Prose Poetry |

When Will I Recollect My Memory

When will I intervene 
to stop my tears 
 from flowing endlessly.

When will I take action to
invade my happiness 
 hiding in my closet.

When will I hypnotize
 my spirit and soul
 not to abandon me, 
nor elope with 
my liberty.

When will I embark
 lift up
my compassion 
and forgiveness
to fascinate
my existence. 

When will I stabilize 
my elderly
 emotions to stop
living in the past, 
 if not, my future 
will never be lived.

When will I get ready
to walk a path full of roses,
ask them advice
 how to find peace
in my within.

Ready To Act.
When will I become strong
 befriend my emotions, kindness ,
 and sensitiveness, 
plus all my loyalties.

Wake up.
When will I feel the urge
find a place in time 
to withdraw,
how to replenish myself
my mind will remain 
to survive.

When will I nourish 
my desire 
not to surrender 
to the ugliness 
aggressiveness hatred 
living around us.

I should intercept 
hypnotize my melancholic 
delusional thoughts,
But involve my dreams
wake up,
project a beautiful
remind me to 
dream again.

Therese Bacha
13 August 2013

Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2013

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 |


Glide and sail into the waves of the sea,      
conquer the tides, and the groans of the wind
while motionless heaven watches, 
where for decades, the sea murmurs life ~ love.
Hungry eyes, eager ears ache at the quay;
mother and I wait with cold arms at the dock.
The sea, the wind, and the heaven remain
unchanged will the sea bring the ones coming and
leaving here to the place, they desire to go?
Pain sears her thoughts when she remembers Father;
years have passed; the scars of his leaving are not yet healed.
She loves him so. She can’t forget the gleam in his eyes.
I hear Mother sob between litanies of prayer each dawn.
Only Father's return will mend her broken heart.
Years pass, the scars she wears are not yet healed.
At the seaside where Father last departed, we recall his request
Move together don’t look back, move on together, always.
In the pale light of this day, as I hold Mother’s hand and
we walk along the quay, I felt Mother shudder as she says
Move together don’t look back, move on together, always.
That day, more than most, we did not want him to be away
as a tender, embedded, memory returns of Father’s smile.
Glide and sail into the waves of the sea,      
You may stand among us who survive life's tides 
while motionless heaven watches, where for decades
now I tell the tale from memory of Father, the sea of life ~ love.
a new child’s hears, our eyes tear at the quay;
Yet, our open arms spread wide embracing every day.
The sea, the wind, and the heaven remain
unchanged will the sea bring the ones coming and
leaving here to the place, they desire to go?
~~Inspired by the painting: Morning at the Quay in Venice 
by Helen Allingham~~

***Thank you Debbie Guzzi.. =`)

__Olive Eloisa D. Guillermo__
4:58pm; January 21, 2015

Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo - Fraser | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

Some Things will End but Memories Last Forever

Some Things will End but Memories Last Forever
We do different things in our daily life and may forgot some things before we went to sleep at night.
And most of us have no problem with that, because if we need to remember all the things that we’ve experience every day then our memory will be quickly overloaded.
That would lead to an exaggerated nervous and the possible consequences is give us a psychological complication.
Ends up with many experiences to keep in the forget zone of our brains and we never more thought about it or looked back, because those were things that not interesting enough for us to think back.
This is something very great if we could forget quickly for those bad things which happened and gave us an unpleasant experience in life.
Then all positive enjoyable moments will stay everlasting in the memory of our brain.
It would be very happy for us to only think back our joyful memory with an emotionally smile.
But now comes the not so funny part of our life, with an emotional abuse or bad experiences that hurt our hearts.
We have a separate room (storage) in our brain to keep this bad memory from the worst event in our life.
The bad experience will remain in our memory for the rest of our life and it will haunt us again when we are facing something similar in future.
Because we are always reminded of the horrific moments of life and thereby get all stirred up again in our memory which can give us a bad feeling.
Try to forget those bad memories forever and not to think about it back because it is not worth to lose our energy on it.
Keep only those positive things in our brain, don’t let the negative thinking influence and ruin for our life which give frustrations in our future.
Say Goodbye to the bad memory in our life and only remember things which can give us happiness forever.
I wish you a healthy life.
Kindly Regards,
Author Jan Jansen

Copyright © Jan Jansen | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Books Etched in Stone

The community cemetery adjoined
the rear fence-line of his property.
Broad, rolling green acres landscaped
with varieties of shrubbery and trees.
Monuments in lines, rows, and diagonal patterns. 
Most of them simple, monolithic.
Carvings, etchings, and brief epitaphs 
carved in granite or marble

The stones, like spring's green leafed 
trees and fresh-cut grass, know the seasons.
They awake to the sun each dawn; grow
shadowed, docile, meditative at twilight.
Nature recycles around them by annum.
Precious stele' standing their post eternal, 
while the invisible substance of air smoothes
each carving and etching ever so covertly.

Mornings he would sit, steaming coffee mug in hand,
reflecting on the tranquility of the sentinel stones. 
He envisioned the markers being books 
to be leafed through, revealing life
from the mundane to the ecstatic.
A few concave or convex letters and numbers 
carved in stone could never convey a person's
full saga in time. The humanity of a life. 
Those things their blood had seen, felt, or known.

The ranks of headstones still stand guard.
He sips hot black coffee and imagines reading 
the story inside each book of stone; 
opening each, as one gently peruses 
the pages and content of a rare, precious book.

                                      Books Etched in Stone
                                      Free Verse

Copyright © Brian Baumgarn | Year Posted 2015

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 |



It’s not like
it never happened;
it did.

The gentle sighs;
the soft sweet smiles;
the tender touches;
the assuring words:

All setting
our minds at ease
and putting nervousness
and fears to rest: then we parted.

With our going---a painful void
briefly presented its self; 
our hearts, minds and souls
experienced a brevity of discontent.

Yes we parted.
It’s not like
it never happened;
it did.

Now---awakened thoughts
generate ecstatic memories.

Ecstatic memories
that slowly fade away
like autumn leaves
in gentle winds---drifting
in the currents of time.

I miss you dear friend;
I miss you.

It is not like
it never happened;
it did:

And we’re the better
it happened.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Breakfast With Ingenium

     It would be disingenuous to say that Ingenium did not have a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich for breakfast. It would boarder a lie to claim the same deity did not begin their morning exercise with a job through the unexplored corridors of the memory and imagery. The halls of memory are charted to an extent, but the cathedrals hidden down the vast tunnels of imagery seem always foreign and new. There Ingenium stopped to smoke a cigarette, leaning against a door marked "wooden". Neighboring this door were others, each with a replaceable placard screwed into the hard-wood. "Plastics" one read. "Trees" read another to Ingenium's left.
     Propped up by the "wooden" door, they watched blurred figures move behind the tinted glass window of the door before them. Dark letters were craft-fully painted onto the glass: "Office Furniture". There seemed to be an argument over vague physics terminology being held between two shadowy characters in the office space beyond the tinted glass. The abstract entity could only make out a few mumbled words, something about work force equaling applied pressure divided by ambition over availability. The banter failed to impress Ingenium, and the muse snuffed its cigarette against the oak molding of the "wooden" door before continuing its job.
     They passed other more decorative doors like "religion" or the red-white and blue striped door labeled "politics". It wasn't until Ingenium reached the door to the self that they stopped and released a sigh. Reaching down with unfathomable presence, Ingenium turned the red glass door knob and opened the door before it. A world of light and darkness poured out, flowing through the deity like whey through a screen. The curds that collected there were the substance of the soul. The cheeses that we ate that night were the mana of life, to be consumed today and gathered again on the morrow.

Copyright © Andrew Repenning | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |


What is it about me
that I cannot place you
in the picture painted by the years
the life has already spent?
Do you merely lurk,
and leave at a much later time?
you are staying

If you may.
I pray.
While I find a place (for us)
in the picture of eternities,
the gods must be 
themselves amusing.

Ah, the grand scheme of things -
                            a forgetting.
A familiar spirit we feel -
                            a remembering.     

(Note) This piece was inspiredly written for the beautiful souls - even the 
strangers - I have met along the way and will still come upon in my lifetime. To 
each special one, you have stirred quite a familiar spirit within. A remembrance 
of forgotten past, I suppose. Thank you for letting me peak through your 
soul's window. The veil of forgetfulness has never been thin as now to me. You 
have so given me a gift I shall treasure in the moments I may tend to forget 
who I truly am - a being with a soul.

Copyright © Wendy Meyer | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Mirror Inside the Lid

An ordinary rectangular wooden mirrored lid, paint-chipped and worn, sits in my bathroom, the mirrored part having gotten spotted over time. I often hold it up in front of me, faced away from the bathroom mirror to check my hair and clothing from behind. Sometimes I take it in my gym bag to check myself after workouts. Other times it has served as a receptacle for small items such as pins or pencils. The remnants of two gold latches, flattened now and a bit rusty, prove that this common lid was once attached to something else; it was a lovely jewelry box, for which the mirror served a definite purpose. When the box was open, the mirror, upright, reflected a tiny ballerina dancing on a center platform to the tinkle of a pretty tune. No one would guess the sweet scene this old mirror once reflected nor the many childhood treasures its lid covered, so why do I still hang on to it? However ordinary it is today, this mirror inside a bulky lid gives me some small comfort. . . . If I try, I can almost recall the times I opened the precious box beneath it to see a ballerina twirl, accompanied by that sweet music from my youth.

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Walk Down Memory Lane

One day this will all become a distant memory
As all memories are
The days
The hours
The minutes
Down to every second of your life
Becomes a memory
Each foot step takes you further away from the past
Having a psychic intution 
Knows the future
Stop trying to re-walk old foot steps
Just don't stop trying to discover the mysteries to become whole

Copyright © Miya Fontaine | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

Our Memories

There are those who would give anything just to have one moment of recall.  But they cannot, because of sickness. Our hearts cry out for these, and may we always treasure the gift of sweet memories.

Memories.  Don’t let them catch you unprepared and unable to deal with them properly. They have been with us for a lifetime; some of which are good and others not so much.  If our memories have not been delightful, they could have us saying, “Did I do that?” For some, they may be so painful that attempts are made to deny them. Some of us drug and drink them away, but they refuse to be dismissed.

When a very young man, I attempted a trip on a snowy and icy road, and didn’t get very far. Not only were the roads bad, but my tires were shamefully worn.  Within a mile of my home, a tire blew, the vehicle flipped, and landed in a ditch.

The vehicle sustained minor damage, and I was unscratched, but totally embarrassed. Each time my memory serve up this incident, it is one of those, “I can’t believe it”.  The disbelief is not that I came out free of injury, but that I foolishly attempted such a drive.  This is one memory I would like to send to the ‘no recall zone’, but I can’t.

It wasn’t a dream, nor a nightmare, but a once upon a time live event.  My memory!  These kinds of  “Say it ain’t so moments” may go into the recycle bin, but you can’t delete them, and they literally refuse to be sent into some black hole.  Like computer data, it is stored as memory; but it has limited storage capacity.  But our brain has more memory capacity than we could ever use.  Memories!  You gotta love em! 05232015 PS Contest, Mid October Premiere, Brian Strand

Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Black In Time

Let`s go black in time
Come with me black to history
Black to the mother land
Where we rightfully belong
Black in time before the Europeans
Tried to whitewash our
Skins and minds
Black to the kingdom and ancestry
Black, way black before slavery

Black am I 
Not just the color of my skin
The pupil of my eyes or the hair on my head
But black at heart, black in my thinking
And black in my thoughts

Black in time
Black my story, every sentence, every line
Black every rhythm and every rhyme
Black the days on their slave ships
Heading across the ocean lines
Black the shackles and the chains
Black the whips that cut our veins
Black the blood that stained the lands
Black the heart of every whiteman
Black the husbands and the wives
Black the circumstances which changed 
our lives
Black the mother and the father
Black the separation from each other

Black, black, black, black
Black the struggles and the fights
Black the system which took away 
our rights
Black the midnights we tried to make 
our run
Black the rope on the tree that hung the ones
Who wished to be free

Black, black, black, black
Let`s go black and turn the world around
Let`s take black our civilization
Every continent and every nation
Let`s take black the white man`s dominion
Let`s take black our rightful rulership
No more subjection under
The whiteman`s dictatorship
Let`s black out the pages 
of the white man`s days
And attribute the praises 
to the black liberal race

Black my eyes and the things they see
Black the visions of those who preceded me
Black Marcus, Selassie and Mandela
Black Obama and the Christ
Black the life I live because of their sacrifice

Copyright © Leon Pryce | Year Posted 2013

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 |

Time Heals

Days became weeks,
Weeks became months,
And gradually months turned into years…
I wondered,
God, what did I learn over the years?

What did my relationships teach me?
Each one was special,
Was love a mirage?
An arrangement, 
An adjustment between two people…
I truly don’t know…

I wondered,
What lessons my heart learnt?
That it was best to invest in self,
Rather than waste your time on others…

It is a far greater grief,
To have a man’s love,
And then lose it,
For me,
Memory lingers,
I befriended pain in the process,
It became an integral part of my life,
Inherent to me…

Wish If I could go back in time,
And erase the whole experience,
Had I never met some,
I would not have to 
Go through so much of hurt,
Was the experience worth it?
I truly don’t know…
It kind of left me, 
An outcast in my own eyes

Hard to put my past behind me,
But it always intrudes into my present,
Everyday is a silent struggle
Quiet yet turbulent,
Tough to explain


Looking back now,
I don’t blame anyone,
I am the writer of my own fate,
I let others exploit my innocence,
I was emotionally weak then,
And that’s where I went wrong…

Did bitter experiences,
Make me a better human?
A sort of discovering
My latent strengths,
Did destiny stimulate? 
A burning passion in me
To improve myself,

Did it transform?
The breeze into a tempest,
Did it turn?
A dull fable into a masterpiece,
I guess, 
It helped me,
To emancipate myself,
From the shackles of relations…

Copyright © Vinaya Joseph | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

That first Kiss

The rain brought with it
the smell of fresh spearmint.
We were cocooned in an
abandoned lake house.
The rain hitting the roof 
like Vesuvius ash.
Washing the landscape.
Bouncing like sand on a beating drum.

We were damp in this musky mire.
Skin steaming like half boiled kettles.

The rain beats down 
harder, harder, harder
Like a prehistoric drum
Beating, beating , beating

The wind whips up the rain again
until it beats against the pane.
And cascades down the frame
So pure, so clean, so real

Do you remember?
That kiss.
That touch.
And those 
gossamer threads.

Do you?
I do!

Copyright © Tony Kirk | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |


"It happens just because we need to want, and to be wanted too...when love is here or gone to lie down in the darkness and... listen to the warm.” -Rod McKuen

The earliest days with you were way too cool. We clashed like cymbals crashing bitter bronze, cold so close it stung head-on. I froze for days in the after-clash that rung and numbed my inner ear. It would take some time before I could feel your real vibe. The hottest snare my ears will not recall; it burns too much to know the sweep of brush is gone. But at night, after the marching band’s pounded out every bit of sound and stretched like hide my auditory nerve, you pity the nothing that’s left from my highs and my lows. Like smoke from a gun, your voice reaches me. In the bass of my drum, with steady beat, you sing to me, "Listen to the Warm." You tap so soft and sweet. How beautiful that you can still touch me with the words you used to speak.
April 26, 2016 "Listen to the Warm" Contest

Copyright © Rita A. Simmonds | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

Loss of Appetite

The world shifted a bit when I walked inside,

my resolution blind to the choke of memory.

It wasn't even you, just your little sister..

I still wanted to turn around, and walk right 

back out of the restaurant. Go home.

**** lunch. Hungry for solitude, I fumbled

with the menu and meditated on the restless

scabs of a beer battered soul.

My father watched my jaw clench

and squinted. Mumbled his query,

but didn't push it. I couldn't speak,

bloody tidal waves surging toward

my eyelids, blurred the menu.

Brinzano? Sea Bass with a 

Chipotle sauce on a bed of rice.

Unsure of my palate, my tongue 

slowly shoveled the words out

and I ordered despite my appetite 

for closure. We locked eyes for a

moment, and she smiled. 

I nodded. Stroked my beard,

and looked toward the truck.


It was probably rude.

A bit pathetic.

It wasn't even you, just your sister.

But a relative of a butcher,

still sometimes smells of blood.

The food, flavorless in the mouth

of bitter reflection wasted.

The wait for the check, ticked

slowly across my spine

and I wondered if you ever 

saw the flesh of my posture

in a crowd; If it stood out?

Made you hungry?

Or if you have forgotten,

the way I've been trying to

for so long.

-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.

Copyright © James Kelley | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

Of A Pin Cushion Heart

     Of a Pin Cushion Heart

Corroded tear ducts,
crystallized tears,
and estranged crying,
have left
a pin cushion heart
that no longer bleeds
memories of hurt.

The space left
with your leaving
still remains
but need not be filled:

I will always
have known you
and love you still.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Haunted Memories

Lies and deceit
Words that break down
Life changing decisions 
Haunting daily life

Why the truth untold
For whose benefit?
Who decided?
But life continues
With memories haunting 
When sleep won’t come
And early rays of the sun appear
So the memories fade they say

More lies 
For one learns to live 
With these memories
Of lies and deceit

Copyright © Shining Bright | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |



In the city,
The sun often wears a veil of grey mourning,
Woven of smog and dust.

In the evening,
The stars retreat from the lights
Of the city far below.

Far from the city, 
I walk the beach, sun hot on my skin.
Waves wash cool and white over my feet.

Seagulls dive and snatch,
The remains of the fisherman’ catch
And the kite glides and falls like a stone to earth.

The sea rolls on and in.
An endless murmur,
Through the days and the nights.

My eyes, accustomed to this light
Of sky, of sand, of dry bush land.
Watch the sails of a lone boat.

And I think of many things, as I walk along this beach.
And as always my thoughts return to you.
You with eyes the colour of the sky.

I wonder where you are in the city
So far away from my world, from your world,
Of sea and sand.

I think of you and the distance in between us.
Distance that as time has passed,
Has grown too far to breach.

I know this, but still I think of you,
As I retrace my footprints,
In the dampness of the sand.

JM  2012

Copyright © Jennifer Magrath | Year Posted 2012