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Prose Poetry Metaphor Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Metaphor

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

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Details | Prose Poetry |

Because Education Is Important

The last time I had seen this particular cousin of mine, I was still in college and he had a head full of hair. In between, there had been three funerals, two weddings and four births in our Trojan royalty of a family. I had been a university graduate for a year, and the prospect for a job, a decent one at that, had started to grow dimmer by the day. He asked, “Will you tutor my daughter?” “Yes!” I said. And we set out immediately. He, on his bike and I, on my motorcycle following him. We took a right turn at the famous landmark of the statue of demoness Putana, sitting on the grass with her bosom out and legs spread forward. He introduced me to his wife and daughter. Telling them to stand side by side, he told me, “She's only eleven, but look at her! Already equal in length and width to her mother, who is no delicate petal herself. Do you think you can teach her GK?” 

The universe wasn't made with dissent. Plus, the chicken samosas were really delicious. I tried on a grin while the overachieving pre-teen bustled around the room showing me her accolades for painting, singing, studying. As I left he pointed at a tree, “Do you know what tree is that?”

“Bael?” I answered thoughtfully. 

“Apple. That's an apple tree.” 

“Oh! Does it bear fruits?” 

“Not in this climate!” He laughed out loud.





---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Date: 30 / 11 / 2016
Contest: James Tate
Sponsor: Space Cadet

Copyright © Tamal Kundu | Year Posted 2016



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 |

Blackbird

Trapped like a bird in this filthy cage 
Where I am starved of compassion and understanding 
Left to survive on meager crumbs 
Of affection and tolerance
Held captive and unable to fly and be free 
From the physical and emotional restrictions 
Placed upon me by my keeper
 
Who’s only reason for my presence it seems 
Is to stay its loneliness and insecurity 
To feed its selfish need for control 
Through its twisted concept 
Of love and adoration 
I am looked upon as a possession 
Other than the living, breathing individual 
That I long to be 

So now I sit upon my proverbial perch 
In my so called gilded cage
In the confines of my seemingly mundane existence 
And walk though my mind confused and alone
Aimlessly wandering through the now empty spaces 
That no longer hold the dreams or aspirations 
Which I once thought gave my life purpose 

Memories which were bright and alive 
Full of promise and hope but have faded away 
Into a past that is now grey and bleak 
Devoid of anything worth remembering 
My footfalls echo in the silence 
Giving testament that these memories 
Have been empty and forgotten long ago 

My only hopes now are that my keeper 
Will grow tired of my deliberate silence 
And obvious disdain and release me 
Whether through life or by death 
At this point either would be welcome 

How I long for the freedom 
And comfort of the clear blue sky 
The ability to soar like a bird 
High above the reaches 
Of those who only want to keep me 
And fly towards the bright and colorful horizon 
Where I know my future waits 
And new memories and dreams can be made.

Copyright © Thomas King | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

caged

like the animals
in a zoo,
we roam freely
within our allowed 
spaces---caged
and confined, yet
our cages are invisible---
we, like the unbarred 
elephant,
no longer chained---
oblivious to his power---
will not move
beyond the mental keloid chain
hooked around our brain:

today, we just march 
and sing sad songs---aping
caged birds---
crying to fly away home.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Love Has No Reply

  Love Has No Reply
Love has no reply it just waits- 
love has no reply - it just prays- 
Love understands- as it hopes 
that rage will be quelled-
That the core of your heart will 
be overwhelmed- 
and overruled-Disenchantments 
of the venial mind-are allowable 
If you never intend to exhale- 
then inhalation is inevitable.
Demons seek company - 
Presenting illusions to keep misery 
side tracked' in sorrowful elegies
The cardinal mentation-
will automatically 
tick, when your tocking and;
Tock when you are ticking.

You came here with no instructions-- 
Love requires no action 
Does not have to reply
No matter the jargon 
the meaning of "no “is the same. 
Whether you wax or wane,
with wagers parlayed 
invest in the" WAIT" like the yellow light 
"Spread your bet-green light- keep moving 
Not always smart- to bet on a sure thing.
Red light stop wait -think about 
what you're thinking of doing- 
win, win situation.
Prior truth is not necessary for 
what is "yet to be believed" 
Permanent solutions 
should never be applied to a
temporary condition.
The efficaciousness of the syringe as a method in seeking answers to concepts is horribly ineffective. 
Love has no reply--- No outside stimuli - 
No do's or don'ts ... from the I ...
Strictly and inside Job.

Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Written Suicide

I am a writer. The odds are in your favor that I bet you may be a writer as well. It isn't that extremely bold of claim. I type. I text. I make words. Words make me. Make up my inner most amazing molded version of myself.  
I write with conviction. Words are the convict. Perpetrated as is, words are like magic. Illusive words are. Words are illusions. Illusions may be a little on the wordy side. I stand side by words. Words stand as is, by me. That is super simple for possessive intent by a random you. I stand by my self claim of written evidence of many wordy phrases.  
I would, personally, in a social setting, find it nearly impossible to self compose a suicide… 
Why do I need to limit easy answers? 
That is just my style. Likewise I withhold little to every(none-thing). 
If I made it cut and dry then why would I waste our time in its composure.  
I'm busy so a summary will conclude. 
I write as personal therapeutic release.  
In the act of writing a suicide letter. I would write myself right out of that idea.  
I would just pull the trigger and leave a photo bomb of some (none-thing)  
Suicide all letters are not 26 and z.  
They are forever 27 and lmnop.  
Picture me writing.  
 
 
In the act of writing a suicide letter

Copyright © Ir0nic ZiNk | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

POETIC JUSTICE --VIRTUE OVER VICE

“POETIC JUSTICE” (VIRTUE OVER VICE)

Virtue over vice—who will pay the price
Ironic twists of fate are flawed if virtue does not equal reward
Logic needs to triumph—to beat and defeat
The tragedy of treachery that strives to cheat and repeat

Try to see outside myself and understand the eyes
To analyze, theorize, recognize and polarize
Excuse all the highs that terrorize
Unacknowledged trauma’s are like wounds that never heal
Never feel—on a constant wheel—a terrible price to pay for sin
Until at last the outside matches the justice
History written on the body—a canvas of poetry
In the end, reality, the price to pay would be too great
Too much at stake 
Comfort zones obliterated, confusion reiterated
What then… the end?

Life seems slow to reach conclusion
To wait, turn back, to stop or go
To fly or dive when there is no restraint or self control

 Deceit makes it hard to separate the self
Seeking truth above the easy way out
To shout, express doubt, to dropout--- burnout


Justice is tested through another’s eyes
Disguising their own lies as they spy and deny
The poetry of playing the same game
Camouflaged by another name—to shame blame and disclaim

Does virtue win the day?
Or vice have its say and inevitably stay
Does it triumph and receive reward?
Or is logic a masquerading fraud 

The poetry in justice must ultimately distrust and adjust this
Lift the darkness
Make it painless, nameless and stainless
The punishment… its sword





Copyright © Kim van Breda | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

METAPHOR OF LOVE

                          The barrel full of pain and pleasure
                             Honey and milk filled the cup
                          Throbbing tunnel kisses the neck
                           That spills the metaphor of love











(c) RAJAT KANTI CHAKRABARTY, 2014

Copyright © RAJAT KANTI CHAKRABARTY | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

Silent Majority

Secrets are anxiously being kept with a behavioral struggle, as one of the special few enters the room; obviously preoccupied with his thoughts. Bottom teeth are nipping his upper lip tucked tight, rope acting as added mastic reinforcement, for his otherwise bitten tongue. Ordered by his authorities to hush his puppy trap, or else… Fear of consequence leaves will power to fight off the urges that voice egg this silence, almost beyond breaking point. Grinding gears linkages’ full grown wisdom tooth. Blood begins to fester from a crevice, pooling up and fading color as sweat beads from every pour. A drop falls from the nose's tip, momentarily reminding him to keep it clean. Left arm takes a desperate appearance; dramatic exhalation, frantically patting down his back side. Relief sighs hanky, saves this rear from near death, experienced if only instantaneously, so does it vanish into the memory foam that evaporates. Illusionary anxieties that are all too real. Too often do silent secrets hold the dark-man-majority fending off beast’s remote of dumb-blind control. Rage would seem defaulted reaction, but sealed lips tell no lies by omission's special fact. Spoiled rotten litter crop dust mad cow pest hand me down; shoe. Secrets kept silent by best friends’ false impersonation, left hope less faith stolen. It's no wonder he said his name was Rob? Crook clinches his jaw grinding teeth, fighting off the compulsive squeal. Integrity overthrown at barbarian's hand, that a razor edged blade once conspired, begging your pardon.
 
Unable to mend lacerations when knowledge cut the throats of the few who could only be looked down upon once pedestal lifted higher eyes. Betrayal of integrity; murder’s associated conviction locked away from the grinders’ lower outlook, as decay tartars build up a stained existence, evident when generation next locate systematic flaw’s plaque. Riots rage wild, setting fires’ self-seeking justice perfect recipe revenges, reciprocated actions equally unjust. Transforming their ignorant innocent bliss, by becoming that they swore in family names, mortally impossible, achieved the utter improbable. In eyes blink anxiety taken refuge, as their lips fester from a bitten tongue, with application of mastic. Grinding wise teeth, as they themselves, knowledgeably, harboring secrets vast majorities, ordered by higher eyes to remain silent. Humilities’ pity related, only by the same hate that government enlist fabrication armies of vocal attacks, imaginary connecting dotted-boundaries, lined with installed, illustrious fear. Cycle this repeatedly into space time continuum as links’ chains seem indestructible. Silence high jacking freedoms’ conception, until courage presents possibility’s presence. Cowards’ mute in progress presently, such coarse remains, anxiously awaiting the apocalyptic squeal of vacant ears, with one true hope; to return voices back to this totality formation, combined collectively, corrupted, and tragically flawed; silent majority. 

-8-29-15

Copyright © Ir0nic ZiNk | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

Paint the Permanent

I stand before the canvas of my life
with the arsenal of brushes I've been armed with
choosing the paints with which I'll work

My will is to paint the permanent
No watercolors that can wash
My strokes will stain the canvas true

In my art studio my brushes fire
Salvos of sultry reds
Volleys of vivacious violets

But I don't always paint alone
Others there are that share the studio
And though our canvases won't always hang together
A small army of artists are we

Who paint our lives with care
For all the world to see
The hues we use only we may choose
Brazen and bold, subtle, or stark
Soldiers of our arts
Aiming and striking and painting our hearts out
Until we die
And go to the Gallery

But as for me
I stand before the canvas of my life
And the brush is in my hand

Copyright © Brandi Elizabeth Brown | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

Homelands

====================
Homelands
Arabic poem by: Adel Said*
Translated into English by: 
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
=====================

At the end of the line I stand
As should a professional homeless do
Exactly at the end of the line
Before the committee on homelands distribution 
Among those who fall in the overflow
Over the needs and capacity of time, place, 
Maps, 
Population records,
And cemeteries. 

At the end of the line I stand 
Hanging like a teardrop in a funeral 
Collecting what have fallen of my years,
My fables
And my extinct dreams,
In the bundle of my childhood that missed her doll
And my deferred share of my mother’s tenderness.

I have a flavor the midwife failed to sever
With the umbilical cord
In my heart, there is still a nursery rhyme
About a duck swimming in a river
And a songs about a fair maiden’s tear dripped down with  kohl
And my fingers are still trembling
In fear of the lesson and the swish of the teacher’s ruler.

I have in the piggy bank of my life
Volumes about hunger and wars of social classes
Burned by the fascists 
Who also snuffed out the tears of forbidden love.
I have in the piggy bank of my life
Dates I saved of palm tree’s yearning for the land
And some palm pollen dust still traveling in my lungs. 

I have no signs of prophecy on my forehead 
And no halos of saints 
But my homeland that’s sitting there 
Amidst the committee on the homelands distribution
Will recognize me
And I'm in the queue 
I will not compete with the homeless comrades 
For their homelands 
And will not accept that illustrious one on the right 
And not that opulent one on the left
I’ll accept only that one,
That one whose head is a palm tree 
And whose arms are two rivers.
 
- You , O Mister!
 You who was at the end of the line,
 You haven’t been recognized
 By any of the homelands gathered in the committee,
 The exiles snuffed out your flavor
 And withered your songs;
 Despite the high level of adoration in you
 No homeland on earth
 Understands your language.

 - Even  that one? !

 - Even  that one ..
And out of pity 
We decided to grant you a berth,
A berth that will never come to an end
You will waste on it  
All that’s left in your lifetime’s piggy bank 
Of tears, 
Of dreams loitering outside the fence of life 
And of years flying, like neglected pieces of paper,
Out of the window of history! 

===========
Translated by: Em. Prof. Inaam al-Hashimi
USA
*  Adel Said is a poet from Iraq who resides in Norway

Copyright © Inaam Al-Hashimi | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Drowning

Gasping for air. . . you strain your neck; stretching..you look around, checking.
Struggling to keep the pace. . . you're movements, fluctuating; you panic, you try floating.
Screaming for help. . .  no one is around, you wish for a miracle; you're wheezing, yelp not helping.
Giving, no one is reaching. . . the waves starting to bring you down; you fight, your Will diminishing.
Vanishing. . . your light dimming; They look from afar, will they notice you're drowning?

Copyright © Jesson Rata | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Be a bird

Be a bird…
Keep flying!
Do not worry about losing your wings…
Before it could happen!
Keep in your mind,
If you loose your wings by accident,
You still have your legs to walk on the earth.
And remember, many birds which have wings,
Are unable to fly!
Wings do not determine your speed in life…
But your willpower does!
Always have the urge to fly high…
And enjoy the spirit of your freedom!
Be a Bird…
Keep flying!

Roja Meeran.

Copyright © Roja Meeran | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

As Time Passes


As Time Passes 

Today a swift breath
of wind slapped my cheeks
leaving a tingling chill.

The sky’s face grew gloomy
shedding crocodile tears
falling like water rocks.

Dormant by passing time
flower buds and seeds
sought storage shelters
in terrestrial cabins.

Powerless
we sit by the window
contemplating the new arrival.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

dry your tears

dry your tears
death has gone
and I am here,
no fear my love
no fear my dear

no fear for love is a monster
with flowers for hair
and a warm heart with a sore thumb,
no fear my dear, for love will not eat you-
but in turn will make you smile and laugh
-with a joke or two-
(about a fool in love)
and love shall sing you a song
and lead you to me
so my love don't cry
dry your tears
for I am here now,
no fear my love...
...no fear my dear...

.1.6.2014.

Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Super Man

The rise and fall of a broken soul; the pressure was too much to bear
The letter S was too brave to wear. He was a symbol, a pure form of admiration. Yet his life was 
not his own; full grown; denied the freedom of one’s true life journey
He could never fathom an opportunity of free will for he lived to will free others who hide in his 
silhouette
The darkest shadow brought an abundance of light to the needy. And greedy.
An unadorned model of self-less love dug him an early grave being a slave to aiding. Although 
help was never offered to a man that had a sense of direction. Every step forward followed 
echoing steps behind.
His feet became a carrier. The load was heavy
Regret was constant. Where was kryptonite when he needed it?

Copyright © Kira Price | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

Nightlight

I just want to dream a little more,

before the sun dries up this stream of thought;

before my tongue begins to search for words

faded by the choke of night.

The sky screams in the hands of a harsh turn,

neither of us wants our darkness unveiled.

Yet,

I wish the light would swallow me up as well.

Instead,

the broken slumber of day creeps into my bed,

and shakes my tomb.

I watch it stumble through the blinds,

sloshing, lazily polished, and promising.

Like it always does. 

And I try my damnedest to pull my eyes away

from the hope that is stitched to my shadow,

but no matter how hard I writhe in this place,

I cannot escape the artificiality of this world

 that I can’t seem to wake up from. 

-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.

Copyright © James Kelley | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

My Child

My child
You are the fresh spring air,
You are the warm sun upon my hair.
You are the cool morning dew,
You are the summer skies so blue.
You are the strong ocean breeze,
You are the gentle falling leaves.
You are the light that brightens the night,
You are the mountains filled with might.
You are the ever so changing snowflakes,
You are all that is good, which God makes.
You are my soul, and every heartbeat,
You are the one who makes me complete.

You are, my child.

Copyright © Kelli Settle | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

SEA SAND ODYSSEY


Saturated with fish fry smells, Bar-B-Cue smoke,
rodeo dust and sounds of deep water blues,
with teasing frothing lace spread on the shore,
Gulf Coast birth breeze blew winds 
in sails to Caribbean Sea, Blue Mountain
berries, banana walk yam hills,

And coconut rain drops tapping reggae beats
on zinc roof tops on cool verandah nights,
in herb scented air, curling roast breadfruit smoke.

The tarrying there tested the soul,
matured the spirit, fulfilled long tried
attainments of deferred dreams; then
the sea recruited its journeyman again.

Pacific Coast pleaded an adopted native son home.  Home
to new sea shore sands dusted in smog self negation
of urbane destruction and self nullification of community,
caught in the veiled nightmare—lurking in the promise land.

Hence, lessons learned from a gospel tower that never knew a church,
yet gave life-lived sermons that put homiletics to shame, crucifying
pipe-dream pie-in-the-sky nuances on the crosses of realities.

Atlantic waves, undulating like rhythmic buttocks, frothed
a scent of magnetism greater than the tightening hold of gravity,
attracting an uneasy soul, searching spiritual solaced sands; only
to discover that the seas all share the same shored design:  Yes.
Same shared sorrowful savage slave story!  Different sea: same sand.
Now awaits Guinea Coast sunsets and Cape of Good Hope
cul-de-sac early morning sunrises; then on to the sands of heaven.
Regrets are for those who fail to chase their dreams to realities.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2017

Details | Prose Poetry |

in the river of love

come---
a river of love
flows within my bleeding heart---
deep and wide
waiting for you to dive inside:
butterfly floating
as we meander through the meadows
of the loins of love’s waters…

come---
flow with me---cascading
over love’s many trials and pains
splashing into its soothing sea---
spilling onto its waiting shore of ecstasy :
 
where we may lie around 
in euphoric bliss
of the water’s calming sound. 

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Piano


There, resting in stoic frame, it
reflected its sheen surface; glowing 
like a stilled black water river—The stage
mocking banks at high tide.

Ebony rowed keloids rose in-between
marshmallow like parallels—Aping
a skewed checkerboard smile
frozen in time: a 9 to 13 tuned ratio.

Marooned in this tuned ratio,
all held rhythmic visions 
that veiled eyes could not see;
all held tuned sounds 
that clogged ears could not hear.

88 heartbeats per time—Waiting.
There in stilled silence, lived an eternity
of unity—abiding  in melodic bliss:  a quiet
concerto of beauty—awaiting its released. 

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2017

Details | Prose Poetry |

Forgotten Clothes and Stolen Whiskey

She left me cold, like a forgotten sweater.

Walked right out the door, without even checking the weather.

Now I’m crumpled up by the fireplace, frayed by the rough

edges of ashen bricks that smell of burnt flowers and sun tan lotion:

That stuff she always seemed to smell like, even in the harsh depths of winter. 

But coconut oil and rose petals aren’t enough to regulate body temperature;

So, I guess it was the whiskey that kept her flush that night,

because in the heart pocket of my jacket that she stole  

was a flask of absolution.

Each block she rounded, she doused her frigid organs with

another shot to warm the notion of shattering the path we built.

Fueling a new engine, to carry her blur past the life we once thought

was forged by two souls meant to keep each other warm.

But now this existence is kindled by abandoned perrineals 

and bloodshot revelation. 

I watch fire kissed petals curl up into themselves and gasp

for love’s last embrace until there’s nothing left for the 

fire to feed upon. 

It’s 3 A.M. 

The smoke is beginning to dissipate;

her throat is dry, her legs are tired. 

…We’re both so tired. 

I pull her sweater from the bricks,

feel the wool tear and clench my ribs. 

Gasp. 

I fold her warmth gently as if tending

to a wounded animal and tuck it

beneath my skull; hoping for dreams 

of summer nights, but sleep won’t come.

It left with her. 

She has reached her apartment.

Staggering toward the door, 

she thrusts shaking hands into

my jacket in search of keys.

The flask falls onto the concrete,

the last drops spill out. 

There is nothing left.

The door opens, and she falls to the bed,

cold in the leather too uncomfortable to return. 

-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved

Copyright © James Kelley | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

Blood on the Mirror

You prod at the sores of your heart
with a hemorrhaging pen, wishing it was 
a scalpel; so you could carve 
out the disease that keeps 
your rage alive. 
Basic instinct, I suppose.
To slay the demons,
that made you who you are. 
You thank them for your posture,
but scold the obsidian eyes in the 
mirror. What you have become:
Callous, and engulfed in the 
rotting theater you thought 
you controlled. The reigns 
have broken loose, your 
skull whips in the wind of 
chaos. It’s not really your 
sort of dance, you know…
                                      You don’t know the steps
              …you don’t even know the song. 
It drums against your flesh
as if you were already stripped 
and tanned, spread across 
the hallowed instruments 
                             of reckoning.
But you can’t hear the chant,
only the distant hum of the
butcher who said you could
call him “friend”.
That you were safe,
if only you would show him
what you promised you would
never show anyone.
It drips,
            thick,
                      coagulated,
                                           dirty.
Just like every part of you,
you wish you could burn;
As you dig the covenant,
into the flesh of your enemy;
                                          Your only true, enemy. 
The mirror cracks…
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.

Copyright © James Kelley | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

A bed of Ashes

I found myself needing something more than a tender curve of dimly lit flesh.
I needed a woman's fire that could stoke my soul into a living rage.
I needed a courageous lioness to teethe my muse and let the pain
in my brain bleed unto the Earthy canvas before me.
The salt of my skin wept unto her, and she made it steam.
She was a cleansing fury that damned the man I once was.
She tore me apart so that I could become something new.
Sometimes there is beauty in destruction,
sometimes forgiveness is born out of pain.
She let it rain inside of me when she left,
and I found myself in a bed of ashes.
A new man.
 
-James Kelley 2013, All rights reserved.

Copyright © James Kelley | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Because It Just Doesn't Matter

Because It Just Doesn’t Matter

Innocence slain—mixed feelings
having exhausted
shame—now languish
still sands of time—mocking
a side-ways hour glass.
But it doesn’t matter
because I’m not involved 
and am certainly not guilty.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Fire Is Gone

         
Where a fire once burned
nothing is left but spiraling smoke
and charred memories fading
with the waning of the frighten heat
chasing after the thinning smoke.

The singed lips of my heart---blistered
with the watered pain of lost love
feverously struggle to utter the asinine
question:  Why?
Knowing very well the fool’s answer:
If you play with fire, you’ll get burned!

Shivering from the dept I have sunken---
diving into the black hole of mind, I search
the darkness of vanity to forgive myself
for failing to gather the kindling.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

my shell

I closed my eyes with anticipation for sunrise,
I wanted the daylight, illuminating my shell, and me
But when i opened my eyes, it was still dark
I realized, i must have awakened earlier.
so i closed my eyes , again , this time my eyes felt heavy , however i closed 
them , with a fear somewhere in my heart.
I slept
I slept and slept for as long as i could
My bones started to ache
But i tried…
I wanted to prolong my sleep just to look at the sunrise, the day, a new 
beginning
But when my heart started to tremble
I felt as i lost my breath
This compelled my to wake up, so i did
I opened my eyes
And looked at my shell
I looked and kept looking
It was still dark
There was no light, revealing me
There was no breeze blowing my hair
there was no humming of life
I kept looking -at the dark room, the dark shell
It turned my eyes gloomy and apathetic
Empty, empty as the shell
Without winking but watched
My gaping sight struck something
It was a broken mirror; it was hanging on the side wall
Just beside my bed
While it’s every broken sharp wedged piece but clinging to each other,
As a whole, struck my sight
Every broken pieced reflected
Reflected the ambushing of my misery
It reflected the darkness
It reflected my dark shell
And my empty eyes kept looking at it
Darkness of my shell reflected in the mirror, somehow made me feel, that it 
exists in me.
And As I kept looking, I looked at my face reflecting,
Broken, and my lips uttering without frowning,
Convincing _ it all exists in me and darkens day by day,
Emptying me

Copyright © HINA NASIR | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

Birds Of A Feather

BIRDS OF A FEATHER

We The poets, and songsters, 
with pure hearts; Revolutionaries,
whom have lived and died for truth 
will sit among us there.

Birds of a feather flock together;
Red ants go where red ants go.
Giraffes don't hang with the water Buffalo.


When you die, there will be no room where I am.
You have lived your life and worked your plans.
Now you want to be in the room with me.!
There will be no room in the room I am in.
We be the people of the lesser sins.
Oh, ye of pernicious deeds:


“Opprobrium” be the name posted 
on the room's door that you'll share.
So, go inside and join your kind there.
This time will not be separated by Kin or skin.
But by the state of mind you kept your soul in.
So now go sit in a room named “OPPROBRIUM”.
You all there are of like minds, 
and have committed archaic crimes.


Child molesters, murderers, thieves, and the like.
You shall smell each other’s stench forever. 
And never sit among the righteous.


Surely you shan't find me, 
because I am not your kind; 
So, there is no room, 
in our room for you.
Your mind and deeds, 
dwell with the deleterious, 
that's where you belong.

We be birds of the same feathers 
shall sing a familiar song; 
Water Buffalo shall roam with
Water Buffalo’s. 
Red ants will go, where Red ants go; 
Giraffes will water themselves 
in different watering holes.


Me and my like-minded poets shall dwell 
with righteous, like-minds and pure hearts, 
laughing, reading, and enjoying 
each other’s thoughts.
We who have intentionally done no harm; 
Will continue to speak truth and 
defy the reprehensible. 
We will all cross over to the other 
side, and seek our own kind.
Poets, truth-seekers, and 
scholars shall exchange stories.
We will laugh, reminisce, and write.


This room be filled with us of the lesser 
crimes, enjoying, adoring one another 
for we all are of one mind. 
At one, with one another and the 
Creator; We are the Poets, 
Storytellers, songsters, 
chanting out our rhymes. 


There is no room in our room, 
for we are not your kind. 
Birds of a feather flock together:
Like minds go where like minds go.
“Giraffes don't hang with the Water Buffalo”.
Take heed from the simple life, forget about equality. 
The Creator then made man in his own image
designed by his own mind,
and placed each with their own Kind.

Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

YOUR Signature Part 2 of 2

" YOUR  Signature  ... "

( Genesis 1: 1  /  Rev. 4: 11 )


(Part 2 of 2)

YOUR  Signature ...
Signs On All Existence's Account Ledgers
... Is A Literary, Moniker-Masterpiece
A Singularly, Most Stentorious-Stenography
As A Monogram-Monument That Documents
& Slants To Grammar-Mercy's Typed Guarrantee
(Yet Stands Upright In Justice & Audit-Identity)

YOUR  Signature ...
Each Letter Is Love and Luminosity ...
A Stencil & Substance-Mark of Perfect Symmetry
and Punctuality With A Written-Resource-Resonance
A Sacred-Sequence of Letters Wrote In Such Serenity
Signed In Stone and On Souls and Of Sovereignty
YOUR  Signature - - Reigns So Superlatively

YOUR  Signature ...
Signs & Emblazons The Promises & Prophecy-Fixtures
and Heavenly Holy Scriptures
and Is The Greatest Designation In All of Literature
Throughout Space & Spirits & Strenuous Storms & Seas Divesture
Yes - - We See YOUR Masterstroke-Signature ...

We See YOUR  Signature ...
( Rom. 1: 20 )

       Written & Copyrighted © :  5/8/2014 
                    by:  MoonBee Canady

Copyright © MoonBee Canady | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

Ode to the Writer

Play you noted Lyricists! Let not your lyrics be missed! Your silence is the frequency, Enticed by a laced melody Condemned in a rhythmic spell Only time will really tell Your lyrical harmony Etched in life's symphony Oh, Hail! Or Hale! Kings of speech! May your words reign or rain on minds inpeach Let knowledge rule as you teach You are to blame for the popular fiction And the lost hip hop depiction Your vowel movement is the mission As they are turning to wrong station So arise oh sons of scribes! Let not fame be your weakening bribes The mystery is your story is still empty But the words to be written are plenty I plant thee in the soil of possibility Growing history in eternity Let the acclaimed awaiting your spark, put page to flame, Illuminating the shame where fiction is no longer fame Arise masters of word! The creators of a new world. Your potency is cryptic avalanche in dormant To awaken minds with your content With an earth shattering rumble you move earth with your stumble Tripping all over yourself to cause a rampage and turn a page marked in history That leads to the bread crumbs of destiny, displaying your self-mastery Oh again rise blood line of prophets! Be not sold out by profits. Your words intertwine the future with the past As ignorance over knowledge shall never be surpassed So your prophecies can be for the youth’s benefits And lost in the realm of the elder’s forfeit While bleeding your ink work, flooding the stage Flowing ears steadily from age to age I say rage warrior of the Pens! This is the age when ignorance ends. As wielders of the pen die by the pen are heard Cutting and stabbing the paper in furry blurred Let those pens bleed till society flood Cleansing it with its righteous blood To awaken other giants from their slumber Killing silence's winter into summer Where ignorance is not left to its own device Only your golden silence should be an adequate price

Copyright © siza sibiya | Year Posted 2014






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