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Prose Poetry Music Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Music

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

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Details | Prose Poetry |


Voice: Jason Williams *** I danced! Whirling air around me, particles of sundust in tornadoes and hurricanes following me in awe I danced. Each night I wake and feel my legs The ones that once carried me and jumped so high The ones that took me away from a world I didn't want to be in Creating a dream, I danced. The music colouring a world with brushes and pencils With moves and muscle, practice and pirouette A world I thought no one could take away I danced. When my eyes are closed I dance My mind paints my body whole and healed A unicorn, a world of faeries, a galloping horse A world of dreams, veiled and away from hurt I live again I live I don't dance anymore But I write. My words, my lines, they carry me now My legs are useless, my arms and emotions Carry me So.... I dance again, in words I dance. *** 1st Place in contest: Practiced Passion Sponsor: Frank Herrera November 9, 2016

Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

Bell's Blues

Staring, vapor locked, at my Hammond B-3 console organ, which dominates my 
kitchen.  Surely a symbol of my madness.  I can't help, but think, if the keys were 
the days of my life, and the black ones represented the bad days, are there 
enough black keys??  Fighting petulance, self-pity...losing...
     Wondering if I can stand another minute alone.  Atop my organ, music books, 
and the complete works of Edgar Allan Poe, another mad poet.
     Plagued by physical agonies that merely complete a perfect circle of anguish 
and distress.  Even to worrying of misspelling a word again.  Pure lunacy.
     Remembrance of my 1863 death at Missionary Ridge, something I became 
aware of as a young child before I'd ever heard of reincarnation.  Or just an early 
sign of the madness to come??
     I am lost in a befouling miasma of deep despair.  My life's hopes down to 2 
desires;  one last music band, and taking my son to Disneyworld.  Money is 
meaningless to me.
     I am well aware that death is as natural as life.  And I would venture to guess 
that the loss of my father, my young cousin Billy, my dear friend Mark Trotiner, and 
too many others, are "Business As Usual" in this universe.  But not for me.
     Being terminally ill myself is something I have long since come to terms with.  
And what a reunion it will be!!  But I must continue to go on surviving as though I 
cherish this long and barren life.
     My writing, especially my poetry, my poet friends, my music, my musician 
friends, and a few relatives and others; these are the meds that work for me; not 
the 30 or so pills I must deal with everyday.  So thank you all.
And now an addendum, one which brightened my day:
     Mark Trotiner long maintained that he gave Mark Knoffler (Dire Straights) the 
idea for his hit song "Money For Nothing", when Mark Knoffler came into the 
appliance chain store he worked in way back then, where he bought, and drove 
off with several T.V.s, singing the prototype words he'd gotten from Mark Trotiner.  
Over the years, I tested him repeatedly, looking for the tale-tell deviation in the 
story one finds in a false tale.  He never faltered, he never failed.

Copyright © tom bell | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry |


The soft sounds of my hands in the air
Swift swooshing movement of words
Expressive fingers moving letters around
Stillness flowing sentences to paper
The intricate familiar patterns of language
Never perceived as impossible until 
Possibilities run out, until words stop
making sense inside. Until lips tongue
and brain fail to co-operate, then mouth
becomes meaningless, messy 

The soft sound of my hands in the air
Swift swooshing movement of words
Of colours painted by writing hands
Hands gesture music in the air, frail
and gentle, and ever so expressive
Drooping words of rain and raising
words of rainbow, of love and warmth
Twinkling words of night and dark music
It all paints pictures in a book where
It doesn't matter my mouth didn't speak.

Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |


I sat in awe and watched them make the stage a world, where everything, everything could happen. The music took me away from where I was sitting. Drifting me on invisible lines. And I dreamt. I dreamt. Their hair in braids, their colourful clothes, their graciousness. A jump a deer, or swan. Arms a house to live in. Embracing all the world from love to death and beyond. And I danced, I danced, my music danced in my head, my words, sung on paper, were spoken on stage. Lived a life other than ink or syllables. I lived there. I bowed for my imaginary public. My mind a stage, all dancers, all words, all the music. This dream kept me alive. This dream makes me a poet who sees colours and music in words, and enjoys just that. *** October 31, 2016

Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

Collecting the Cracks that Bleed Through My Voice.

We broke in two and it amused him that I was still counting...

I could hear the night whisper beyond his ears, the bed we lay ourselves down upon and
passion was considerate when his mind let go....

she was direct and unforgiving and I...


I could listen to the tumbling of my heart for ages and I collected music as my lips split
in half, it was only to kiss him, you see, only to allow him to know...

how I bled.

I tasted myself as the night wore on, exhausted yet hungry for his arms, I studied my own
in the afternoon, multiplied my freckles and wondered if my child would be ashamed of the
scars that decorated my skin, prayed she would never know how years could bite, so I
reached for him when the clouds became cold and I became...


as I frightened myself to death in the realization that we....

were still so alive.

The ground we walked on spoke of faults and mistakes, there were cracks in the earth yet
my hand still held his, he was clueless and I was silent but we slept well, he and I,
after passion erupted and the sky split...

when the clouds collected my music and rain sang, just to show him, how the days

Copyright © JeanMarie Marchese | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry |

Bell's Blues (Conclusion)

     Today, I had a chance to ask his widow, Laurie, about this story.  She 
confirmed that it did happen, and he came home from work that day excited, and 
told her and their 3 daughters about the event.
     And sure enough, shortly thereafter, the song became a hit on the radio, and 
M.T.V., in those ancient days when they actually played music.
     This news brightened my day considerably, and I'm happy to share it with you; 
so when you next hear that song, remember my good buddy, Mark Trotiner, the 
uncredited genius behind it.
                                          tom bell

Copyright © tom bell | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry |

When We Met

          ~When We Met.~
Battling everyday is so hard to maintain a healthy 
brain to keep up with our everyday work our 
thoughtful speculations of wanting the impossible 
to take place,has to change,by gaining self confidence
and become independent.

When we just met at the hotel lobby for recollection 
of work,accompanying us the sounds of 4 of July in LA. 
Our ceaseless conversations felt flawless immediately.
A faultless intimate sharing took over a mixture of
work and pleasure.

When we just met,our loving nature coincided with
authentic sounds of fireworks plus its music filling 
the sky with a huge combination of the most
beautiful Technicolor's of fireworks.

The sounds with musical lights combined together
allowed our eyes to sparkle more than ever,both 
of us became in a pensive dreamy mood for a rightful 
discussion about how love can start by romancing,
to evolve later into a durable long lived relationship.
He was so much my type of a man,an artist in his work,
very authentic,fancy,& has an unforgettable 
sense of humor.

Smiling drinking and eating with our discussing, 
constantly allowed us to remain in high spirits, 
behind us the sky illuminated our joy of being 
together,that delightful lasting closeness felt 
like a challenge awaiting for the unpredictable 
to happen,the tremendous sounds of fireworks 
accompanied with a charming tempo ringing
in out thoughts.

Instantly our touching hands felt permissive,
stimulative,devoted,his voice transformed into 
an echo inviting me to later go up into his room 
to heat up the bed and enjoy cooling off our desires.
Having asked me before about what color of roses I love,

Later on hand by hand once inside the room it was filled 
with yellow roses everywhere,and layered on the 
beautiful bed.
Suddenly, he threw my hand bag and held me so tight 
to waltz to the sounds of music,a telepathy between us 
and the sounds rang in our ears as a sweet mixture of music.
Immediately took my hand kissed it with his warmest lips 
begging to love me tonight,what a gentleman our body 
connection was authentic,flirting as a start was conceived 
in an artistic way,kissing wise and making love was 
memorable, slowly the sounds ended while gradually 
our naked bodies parted in the morning when our 
routine for work had to take place. 

We parted with a long sexual kiss,emancipating
another brutal night with a candle light.

Therese Bacha

Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Love's Symphonic Passion

Love's Symphonic Passion
                                by Odin Roark

Shimmering whispers urge forth,
A beginning seeks release from darkness,
The voicing of struggle proclaims arrival,
Like miniature cymbals of resolute announcement,
The humble cries of emergence
Clash ever so quiet with air and space,
Once portending grace,
Now its melodic genesis.

The matrixes of parent/conductor
Anxiously hum nursery rhymes
Through white enameled side-rails,
Vertical portals to unfettered ears,
Absorbing even when sleeping,
Evolving passion's invitation.

The precious first movements
Grow from those one-finger dissonant phrases,
Sometimes pounded upon the black and white landscape
Where an merging piccolo's infant smile
Finds support by paternal contra bass and maternal cello echoes.

Remembrances of tinkling melodies
Soon enjoin its pure and simple
With conflicted movements of trial and error,
Evolving the inevitable adagio of growing up.

Hence forth
The scherzo's innocence of adolescence
Crescendos into threatening measures,
Where layered tones of choices
present challenge,
counterpoint to independence,
or sympatric harmony.

The family of voicing
Develop love's thematic material,
And more complex harmonies,
Creating the free fantasia,
A coalescing of passion's varied workouts.

Its strings worn thin,
Arriving at life's largo movement of peace,
That place of reflective consonance,
The weight of its chambered containment
Rests forth its closing bars,
Housing now but the waning echo of a baby's chorus.

Its shimmering whispers
Float upon one last wave of the baton,
Stirring life's ethereal essence
Into heroic chorus
A higher bonding…

Copyright © Odin Roark | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Flautist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ THE FLAUTIST  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 THE FLAUTIST fluently flaunted her flute- Music flew faultlessly through the airwaves, flying fluidly above the noise of the blustering city                                                    
THE flautist created a calm fragrance, who's flavor of creativity fell-well onto your soul creating a soul stirring calmness across the city. 
She played her flute clean into the night vehemently, over the feverish chaos – 
And the people in the park and in the city could hear clearly as they walked in rhythmic tunes/ She flaunted her music like sweet low hanging fruit, Her music dangled beautiful and singly. She alone, Solo-ed notes of delightful serenity-  
  The flautist moved the masses to a state of bliss; Like free kisses flying in the wind landing on ears conquering and engaging spirits, conquering pandemonium with her flute, she blew her flute... SHE BLEW HER FLUTE, and we marched and listened obediently. She blew her flute and we marched magnificently to her concert.

Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |


	It was kind of nice having money all the
	Looking back when I was seventeen,
		I looked forward to going to work.
	It is unlike what I feel about work now.
		I did a lot of reading as a child.
	I read all kinds of books.
		I would consider Oak Lawn a safe
	Community then. 
		I can’t remember any times when I got beat up.

	I did a lot of running home and telling.
		I avoided a lot of suffering by talking to
		My parents about the bullies.
			It wasn’t until junior high that I had to
		Take care of a fight that went way wrong.
			I was scared to death of a seventh grader.
		I fought him, and found out he wanted to 
		I wasn’t that good of a 
			Wrestler then.

		I got better
			In high school.
		It was kind of chaotic, and the wrestling matches
			Were more “fighting” than wrestling.
		I hung in school and made a name for myself
			At Oak Lawn Community High School.
		My sister gave me a collection of albums
			My junior year.
		I was introduced to all kinds of music by

		My first good introduction to music came
			My sophomore year.
		A friend introduced me to “The Police” with
			“Zenyatta Mondatta” and “Ghost in
		The Machine”.
			He told me what he did at his party
		In eighth grade.
		They sat around and played Gin.
			They drank soda.
		They went bowling.

		I got off to a late start with music,
			And I finally caught up with my tape-
		Radio I got for Christmas my junior year.
			I could have had a big party,
		But I decided to wait.
			I didn’t really have one except
	 	The one’s I had in grammar school.
			My friend thought he was going to
		Get married to this one girl at O.L.C.H.S.
			It fizzled out like my relationship did.

			That girl liked someone else though.
		I should have given up calling her,
			It was no fun talking to her.
		She didn’t talk to me at all in school.
			I’m not sure she even knew who I was
		In lunch.
			I didn’t have anymore classes with her.
			Her boyfriend went out for basketball
		Like I should have done.  I was pretty good.  Maybe just
		Doing my chess and studying was the best thing for me to do.


Copyright © Hannibal Lecter | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Enigmatic Middle C

The Enigmatic Middle C
                                          by Odin Roark

How lonely
Might that in between place be,
Where water from trickle beginnings
Modulates into wakes,
The upward span,
Then downward stretch,
Forging through minor and major choices,
Embracing half tones of engagement,
Carrying a merging forth of discovery,
Becoming a torrent
Containing both high
And low resonance,
Searching connective tremolos for oneness,
Finding innocence too must give way
As sensory reaches beyond comprehension,
Where the journey to ascending chance,
Converges proudly with the crescendo of eternity’s unsolved mystery.

And then there comes the uncovering…

This state of mind where new lessons to be learned
Conjoin this forever gathering of cosmic virility,
Where energy’s often dissonant questions
Start from ancestral middle fulcrums,
Branching its reach beyond scale,
Dancing with lightness of weight,
Tip-toeing upon the notes of power
Into cautious voices forging ahead,
Always remaining of purpose,
Yet often clashing as contrapuntal mistakes.

A child might hear the echo,
As octaves of like innocence reaching skyward
Enjoin rising fathoms from below,
Becoming one in harmony.

Such is the improvisation of life’s exploration,
Searching for tomorrow’s final chorus,
Where one’s once center being,
Youth’s springboard arch,
Finally becomes the never ending center
Of perpetuity’s orchestral gift,
That striving to live what life can be,
And then what it might become,
That spanning far beyond yesteryear’s Middle C,
Where the measured spans of equidistance
Ascend the borderless boundaries of one’s inner-self.

Copyright © Odin Roark | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Space that's within -

The atmosphere is electric with joyous anticipation
The musicians are readying themselves to perform
 You know some of the pieces that are on the programme
You settle yourself down and switch off your phone.

The concert is starting - the atmosphere changes
An energy filters to all in the room. 
A tuning of instruments, the looking at scores
Some rustling of programmes, a settling of bones -
The conductor emerges to a rapturous applause.

The greeting of musicians, old protocols fulfilling
This fuss gives importance to composers long dead
The excitement is rising – the audience is waiting - then
A gentle quiet plucking - a crash of brass cymbals -
Violinists  synergistically wielding their bows. 

Wind takes up some threads of the melody
Soprano in blue sings out from her soul
Her face is mirroring a wealth of emotion
Slow melody – a gradual build up - a crescendo sublime.

A solo on viola – entwined with some oboe -
Conductor is dancing – the harpist entrancing
Percussion joy-riding 
- an excitement of sound
Invades your serenity –

You sit up straight – alert to the music – 
Absorbing it all with each cell of your being
A smile on his face, your companion leans over –
“Keep this in your mind for when you grow older,
It will delight you!”

Copyright © Liz Walsh | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Golden Fertility of the Harvest

He is the sinking of the final red orange sun of the glowing summer 
Warmth no longer oozing and seeping into the pores as I lie bare under the skies 
Jeweled dewdrops on the morning grass to dampen bare feet all softness under  
And the shimmer on the surface of the lakes like the diamonds in your eyes 

He is the golden cusp pf Autumn's Fertility 
The ritual dance of the scarecrow in the breezes 
(Straw coming loose and flying towards you, most certainly 
will brush up against you and tickle before he ceases)  
And this thinner less lumpy all seeing scarecrow  
Seems to be in no remorse: his knowing face will always grin  
And his arms will always be raised in a wave to show 
He will protect the yellow brown stalks that bend before him 
He is the crisp wind that caresses the crinkled foliage 
Their rustling like long flowing skirts on a 1940s ballroom floor 
These winds chill the fingers and toes and your face with the stinging red roses  
Yet when winter beckons the retreating light, we will be frozen at its core 

He is silent snowfalls and many winter moons  
And the brown earth beginning to expose itself  
The uncoiling of green and mud beginning to ooze  
And all new life breaking free from its fragile shell

Copyright © Jennifer Cahill | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |


And the westerly wind,
Will blow a sea of waving grass
And the sea's fine mist 
Will breathe drops like dew
And the sinking suns
Will cloak the sky's horizon
And the moons of Autumn
Will beckon the golden fertililty of the harvest
And the violet tinged edge of night
Will cry for the white bursting of the stars
And the carved thrust of the mountain range
Will challenge the forever yielding blue
And the hovering tunes of the dawn's awakening
Will mimic the lullaby of my dreams

Copyright © Jennifer Cahill | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Meditation on Music

The Evolution of a Note 

The song continues and the listeners remain happy.  The one note which is floating in the air will be heard!  The change in the sound will  be heard .  The change in the sound will not be too drastic .  The truth is something that that there are some things which time cannot destroy.  The air is cold but the sun is shining.  The one note  floats in the air and takes shelter in the heart of a large tree.  Feel this note in your heart .  It has incredible power

Copyright © Matthew Anish | 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 |

Her Never Ending Creation Story


We all have heard The Greatest Creation Story Ever Told,
and it is
as title so boldly baldy states.

Yet, within and without,
before yet also after,
this History of Earth's CoRedemption
deepy lies
highest and healthiest Her EarthStory
born of Sun,


RNA's ReGeneration of Creativity Story
nurturing nature
embracing trees of life
and of dualdark cosmology,
uncomposing our History song and BusinessAsUsual dance.

Spring's decomposition prophetess sighing surf
remembering future's reincarnate regenerative preferences
for health-cooperative networks,
fire-sided circles extending family political legends
and hopes,
dreams and fears,
designing and writing PermaCultural Operas out of bird and cricket songs,
then circling and spiral dancing these forward-hoping gifts
through labyrinthine polycultural productions,
RNA's love-sprouts.


HerStory's Musical TragiComedy,
in Four Acts,
begins as embryonic healthy Uracil with Cytosine,
composting winter,

anticipating this Great Transitional Spring
of regeneratively green rainbows,
crystal-fractal PreMillennial trinitarians,
birthing cooperative 4D nondual co-arising WinWins
as WealthWithoutWalls nurturance,

Followed by Summer's PostMillennial regenerative climax
of health-resonant political-economic resolutions,
full-octave (0)-scaled cooperatives
of opulently lattice-networked slow-growth DNA development
and kinda sexy in a transgenderational
thrustingly and receivingly with gratitude
empathic kinda way.
HerStory's consumer-production diastatic balance

Closing with Fall's integral harvest of polypathic manna
within and from Earth's Heavenly flow-streams of sap,
pee and sperm,
pollen and seeds,
bicamerally pumping blood and surfing in and out waters
of perennial post-climatic baptism

into advent of yet another Winter
sitting in warm solidarity circles
around HerStory's nurturing fire,
singing PermaCultural Operas of health nurturing EarthTribes, 
together at love's great culminating last,
recalling unfortunate former climatically competitive History
flying apart.

Earth's Greatest Nurturing Intelligence Story
tells tall fall
and listens deep ecosystemic function,
presence of conscious co-empathic mind
producing season's of health v pathology development.


Sadly, death is as necessary to ecologies of intelligible life
as monocultural competitions are to organic multisystemic cooperation,
and so this HerStory as HiStory NonDual Two must pass
into a final Fall Curtain,
and yet time enough for Earth's fully self-sustaining regenesis
is eternity and omnipotence enough for me
within autumnal HerStory.

Then again,
there was that implication
of slowly rising understoried regenerative love-curtain
equivalent to Fall's degenerative notnot desertion,


recycling Her New CoEmpathic Golden Hibernation Stories,
born of murmuring multicultural lulla-goodbye farewell namastes,
echoing reiterations of Aloha Time's HerStoric 
bilateral dipolar remembering,
reincarnational cosmology of NotNot Over
'til the rainbow-regenerative Lady
finishes singing EarthTribe's Great ReGeneration Opera.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |


(Winter Song)

This cold is touching me and I'm liking it 

It hugs me real tight and I'm loving it 

Now it's biting me real hard 

From my foot up to my face 

I wanted to let go but it won't 

Though it realy hurts, I won't mind 

Cry? Never! 

(c) 2012

Copyright © Joshua Akinwande | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

Hypnotic Beyonce

A love that is stronger than my pride,
trying to keep feelings my heart can no longer hide
Emotional honesty is trapped within me,
relieve me, and oh please set me free.

How to give my heart if am afraid to be hurt
Turning my back on love ignoring what its worth.
Refused to reach out for his love, I ‘m all left alone, now
loneliness thrilled me to my very bone.
Playing the ‘hard to get game’, now I’m left like a clown.
Trying to escape from such a feeling; truth that my heart is revealing.
Silence screams music in my head, pushing me to switch on the TV
There came Beyoncé doing her show, singing her new song ‘Halo’
Amazed, her voice melted my frozen stare, so I sat down on the coach to listen.
Her music turns hypnotic and pulled me in, sending thrills all over my skin.
Her voice were clear as the Caribbean sky on a cloudless spring day,
and every word she says just melts my heart away, giving deep feelings that
Consume my tender heart, leaving only mystery with no ultimate attempt to define it.
Her word touches my emotion from the core of my soul, and it seems like 
everywhere, only my lover’s face that I behold. 

Then a happy time filled my mind, giving sensation of a summer breeze tickling my 
skin and amplifies the deepest desire I felt within. This perpetual bliss, abruptly I 
found myself in the arms of my love wth Enthralled Melodies making Passion 
explodes into flames and from this very moment, I know my life will never be the 

 By  kelleyana Junique.

Copyright © kelleyana junique | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |

Ecology of HappyTime

Ecology of Time
explores resonant rings of sustained health vitality,
a red strong-willed loving heart
pumping Earth’s nutritional wealth
through our circulating and dynamic biosystems,
beautiful minds
with graceful dancing bodies
on pilgrimage through revolving memories
of time’s embryonic ecological balance,
and climatic dissonance,
Earth’s DNA-fueled human natured brain
entrusting Egos together recover love’s ecology,
recall incarnate health-life,
revolve cooperative evolutions of Ego’s Sacred Time.

Scientific discovery,
winnowing seeds of healthiest beauty as nutritious truth,
political commitment to cooperative,
and sometimes rather too competitive,
research into time’s primal orbit of healthy light,
warmly co-gravitating evolution’s becoming
EarthTribe’s RNA/DNA EcoLogic
of (0)-Centered ReGenerative Time
for more health assurance research and design,
empirical ecological methods 
of interdependent deep learning networks,
conscience rediscovery.

Human eco-norms of DNA encultured time,
nature’s primal rainbow of waving
regenerating octave frequencies,
richly pregnant patterns,
rotating fractal-folding-unfolding liturgical holonic rhythms,
light’s brightly warm transparent through deadly cold ecology 
of deductive nature’s devolving time.

Ecology speaks to balancing biosystems
as poly-tical-eco-norm gospel  beauty muses
sing ever deeply into Time’s ReGenesis,
EcoLogos as Amen with Namaste.

Beauty and potentially nutritious beauty
create healthiest truth you might imagine
within each day’s relationships,
those surrounding you already,
family tiers leading out
toward nested clouds of friends,
acquaintances as co-operators,
both political and economic,
nearby birds and ant hills,
trees and flowers and tomatoes,
rivers of water,
organic gardens of Earth,
windscent of temperate air,
climate photosynthesis fueling revolutionary fire,
embryonic cold dark winters of discontented hibernation,
wet and sun drenched springs 
of cooperative co-arising days and nights,
summers of diastatic climaxing Earth as EcoEgoMaturation,
autumnal decomposition toward (0) dualdark Absent Night,
ReGenesis of Earth’s sacred-integral Time,
all friendly voices of healthy logos resonance
surrounded by toxic pathos dissonance,
long-term suboptimizing EcoLogos fulfillment,
Ego’s potentiating HealthTime.

Tao’s (0)-soul EcoLogos
of BiLaterally Balanced PolyCultural Time,
writing primers for co-arising dancing languages
speaking bountiful truths of EarthTribe Love,
as what remains after removing dualdark Ego’s 
attachments to angry memories 
and aversions to futurefears 
of death without bilaterally incarnate EcoLogos Time.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Day The Music Stopped

I know that you are gone
but I still hear your footsteps on the walk…
your key in the lock…the dog welcoming you home.
“What’s for dinner?’’ you ask
“I am,” I playfully reply and smile
as you sweep me up in a bear hug and I can hardly breathe!

Your clothes hang in the closet waiting for your return.
I listen to your voice on the answering machine 
a hundred times a day  to prove you are still here.
I never imagined when you left me that morning
That this would be the last time we kissed..
I never would have let you go.

This date will forever be a day of shame and heartbreak
The world and I will never forget
This September 11th
The day the music stopped!

Copyright©2001 Beatrice Boyle
(All rights reserved)

Copyright © Beatrice Boyle | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |

Nineteen fable

 Nineteen fable 
Nineteen fable 
MUSICK NONnude Review 
Grand Funk Railroad was a fave group of mine the best time eye ever had was in 
a house on a rug listening to this song of hard rock and rhinocerous thumps. 
Wait. FOGHAT was the best for sex but lucky mee was never a Catholic. The 
Horns blew for Chicago and there was lots of other groups to make this fable 
bleed there was the Creedence Clearwater Revival so cool so wonderful a thing. 
John Fogarty sure must have been a saint. Eye wish he had not got so mad and 
left the other members of his group. But Creedence Song became a new fave 
Daddy had a band 
Played him a little guitar 
Traveled in a van 
Livin' that rock and roll 
Night after night 
People comin' up to the bandstand 
Say you can't go wrong 
If you play a little bit of that 
Creedence song 

It was late one night 
Cruisin' on down the interstate 
Stopped into a diner 
To get him some chili and fries 
Heard the waitress tell a guy 
Standin' over by the jukebox 
Hey you can't go wrong 
If you play a little bit of that 
Creedence song 

Well daddy took a shine 
To the lil' girl behind the counter 
She movin' her hips to the swamp beat 
Right on time 
Said could he play her somethin' 
Over there on the jukebox 
She said you can't wrong 
If you play a little bit of that 
Creedence song 

Daddy had a plan 
He asked that girl to marry 
With a brand new wife 
They're livin' on rock and roll 
Night after night 
She whispers oh so sweetly 
Hey you can't go wrong 
If you play a little bit of that 
Creedence song 

Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2008

Details | Prose Poetry |

EarthTribe's Climate Manifesto

We are what we are becoming together.

To and for
and with
each regenerate creation,
each ego's habitat of mindbody properties,
tools and information,
functional frequencies of healthiest is best use,
therefore economically and politically highest,
on a scale from lead through gold.

Ego lead-identity,
with BiCameral Balanced EcoConscious ZeroZeny Soul
emerges Eco's GoldLogical Rule.

To get our Lead out
of Golden alchemical Rules of EcoLogic
is to replace Ego MindBody incarnating fearful angry identity dominance
with EarthTribe DNA/RNA EcoPolitical Solidarity.

Wild Robbering allies
Brezsny Breezing research cooperative assistants
in Earth's Truth as Beauty Lab,
associate small LeftBrain dominant PlanB Ego-Deduction
of Earth's Paranoid SunGod
to re-associate CoArising NonDual Right Brain PlanA,
EcoLogical ProNoic-noetic
bilateral-temporally revolving Gaia,
4-seasoned with Her regenerative wisdom Story,

intelligent growth and decay nutritional information
bicameral DNA-fractal confluence
surrounded by commodifying
domesticating dissonant restraints
of Earth's climatic nature,
culturing nurture,
Gaia's Creation Story
as Ego's self-imaged embryonic enculturation history,
sending messages out toward future ecotherapeutic regenerators,
turning leaded Ego's
toward EcoEgo Balance,
BiCameral Golden Rules and Ratios,
Elixir SquareRooting fractal-zero primal functions
of DNA/RNA Revolutionary Solidarity,
heat as light
cold as night
neural growth prime mindbody informational function,
Golden Rule of Time's Great Transitional UnFolding.

Golden Proportion life prevails
or Time's leaded enculturation fails.

We are a LeftBrain dominant people,
learning to measure our co-empathic potentiated biological side,
our bicameral mindbody ecosystems,
with both endo- and ecto-symbiotic permaculture equivalency
of design and revolutionary regenerative purpose.

We are EcoGestalt ReVolutionary Events,
both continuous and discontinuous
CoMemories conjoining one universal holonic,
ecologically systemic,
cooperatively political and economic
regenerating rich deep norms,
dense polycultural resolutions,
originators, designers of Time's dialectic measures,
emerging toward (0)Riginal PolyNomial Balancing Intent
with Poly0)MegaPathic EnCulturing Health-Praxis,
in revolutionary solidarity with all RNA thru DNA
syntax-fractal BioSpeciating Open EcoSystem Designers
of each EarthDay.

We are bicameral ecoconscious revolutions
growing in evolutionary continuity
thru resonant confluence
within as without Left-as-Right MindBody
balancing cooperative incorporated incarnated
polypathic harmonies,
each Ego singing our unique dialect
of one Permaculture Opera,
a Golden Creation Story of PostClimatic Transitional Events.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |



Like a raindrops, 
When racing October, smoothly, 
Shaking upon ember pulse 
Ah _ I adore its talk, 
When fear roars into myself and calms

And when the minaret of the village, 
Exclaims my name, 
Like a successive waves, 
On the banks of sorrow

And when my old friends,
Taking a farewell look,
It’s lying down next to me
As a white star, 

Dancing between five sleepless angels 
Upon endless greenery land,
Playing grief tunes; the tunes of the end

Copyright © Fatima Nusairat | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |



Poised chin, resting warmly in the tailored cup,
     Seals the union.
The smooth bow tenderly caresses each tuned string;
    Fingers gentle as milk
Roam the slender mahogany neck: sweetly
     Stealing silence.

The ebony hued harmonic vault echoes released passions
     Of an innocent heart
Bleeding a mosaic canvas: coloring metered air
     With cosmic rhythms.

Cosmic rhythms: teasing tympanic membranes
     With melodic ecstasy.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |


Waking to murmurs	
Hum of smooth white noise 
Or waves slapping rocks

Through mirror-like glass
I see russet wings
Dampened by dewdrops	
Walk to the kitchen, 
my feet soft and bare 
on tiles cracked, and 

wish the sea
so sinking


Copyright © Jennifer Cahill | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

Late Night Music

And far into the night I crooned that tune. The stars went out and so did the moon. I stopped playing and went to bed While the tunes through his head.....!

Copyright © sakshi sitoot | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Encompassed in Memory

Cool mountain streams reflect the cobalt blues and greys of sky 		   
Restful twilight with stars scattered as if on a canvas 		   
Fire cloaks the curve of the earth and golden fish swim nearby 		   

Weeping willows in the field sway to an urgent sadness 		   
The gushing wind that stirs etches the land, channels through boundless time 		   
The carved thrust of a mountain range, maybe the Andes 		   

Will challenge the forever yielding sky, vast as the horizon 		   
Where rain batters the window and mists as far as we can see 		   
It is a warm evening in a pub in Ireland 		   

As the songs hover around us, I know this is what it is like to be free

Copyright © Jennifer Cahill | 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 |


 if the music on
they belong
no matter if its bop
or hip hop or pop
its the music shop
non stop
has no corlor for all other

Copyright © kurtis scott aka curtis futch jr | Year Posted 2013