Prose Poetry School Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About School

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Details | Prose Poetry |

Ghosts of South Dakota part 4

	Of course on this night we are supposed to be asleep so Santa 
could come, but we hadn't been home from Midnight Mass very long, and the 
invigorating cold was not conducive to sleep.  Even the hot chocolate did not do 
much to help sedate the excitement.
	We were hoping for sleds that year.  The snow was perfect for 
sledding especially like we did it.  We tied out sleds on behind the car or pick up 
and were pulled through the hills.  We got our sleds.  My dad and my uncle made 
them for us.
	No television and only in the late years were we allowed to use the 
radio.  Batteries were to expensive for frivolous use.  We spent many hours 
playing cards or games.
	I took time out and went to high school and college and got my 
teaching certificate.
	My aunt taught there only one year after the Federal Government 
turned the schools over to the local government.
	The last time I was back there the out buildings had been moved and 
Indian families were living in them.  The school was dirty and unkept.
	Now the school is gone.  The ancestors who once walked these 
dusty plains are gone.  The Indians who were there when I was a child are gone.
	They are Ghosts.  Ghosts whose faces can be seen in the clouds.  
Ghosts  who still chop wood on those sub zero nights.  And the drums we heard 
in the middle of the nights are still beating.  They beat as strongly as the heart 
beats in a healthy body.  The laughter of the children still echoes under the 
	The life blood of a culture, of a nation grows thin.  The Battle of 
Wounded Knee was the last battle to be fought  between the white man and the 
Indian on the northern plains.  It's cries still echo across the land.
	My foot prints in the creek did not last any longer than those they left 
in the dust.  But in my memories, this mile and a half by three quarter mile haven 
still lives.  And will live forever as a piece of unrecorded history.

Copyright © Marycile Beer | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry |

High School

I don't care anymore. You are the most wonderful thing I've ever seen in my life. 
Everytime you look at me I want to explode.  You're doing some sort of yoga move in front 
of me which you claim not to be yoga with your 15-year-old autistic client, rubbing your feet 
into his hand, bending over him between a giant cushy yellow soft-leathered cylinder, your 
hair dangling over him, now up in a pony-tail as you resituate your thighs, steadied and 
jeaned in that young and smart physique, a show of craving futures for my sitting nature, 
not more than two feet away.

I will love you from afar with light beams if I must.  We'll be left to devour each other with 
our eyes.  In hot-quick glances.

Copyright © Matt Caliri | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry |

school house rock

rosie r red
a girls name,who was wacked in the head
a.violets r blue
she was a girl too
they liked each other and didnt know what to do
because somebody used their line in a poetry rhyme
it gets hit all the time
they just dont know what to do
if you like me then i like you

Copyright © chris bowen | Year Posted 2008

Details | Prose Poetry |

We Are a Poem

You will not 
    seperate us.
For it is hate
    and love that made us.
It is the great and the small
    that reverberate within our bones.
It is every syn and antonym,
every opposite every known,
    the many, the alone.
         We are a poem.
You will never 
    isolate us
for it is truth
    and art that made us.
         We are a poem.

Copyright © Ilan Benjamin | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Ghosts of South Dakota part 1

   	The location of the Spring Creek School was on a flat, nestled 
between the cliff on the north and the Little White River on the south.  The river 
flowed in from the northwest, circled to the south of the school about a quarter 
mile and wended it's way east departing to the northeast.  Though I never saw it 
in my day I imagine this was once a flood plain.  Yes, at one time this could 
easily have been the scene of flash floods.  The waters tumbling and sloshing 
their way across this insignificant piece of ground in a hurry to reach the exit.  
Time had slowed the waters and erosion had taken it's tole, leaving the west and 
south in twenty to thirty foot sharp sandy cliffs.  The ground sloped to the east 
leaving a two foot drop off.  A sandy graded road approached the large heavy duty 
bridge, crossed and continued on as a trail road.
	It's summer and the Little White River gently rolls from bend to bend.  
We are running back and forth across the bridge stopping now and then to lean 
over the rail and watch the Indian children splashing in the only deep spot.  It was 
first comers got the choice spot.  Big deal! Chest deep to a ten year old.
           We run off the bridge south.  The graded road crosses a big culvert 
allowing a small spring access to the river where it fans out at the point of entry.  
We run through the crystal liquid turning it into chocolate and leaving dents in the 
once smooth sand.  This is a child's paradise.  Sand so pure, soft and powdery 
warmed by the sun.  The deeper we dig the cooler the sand becomes as it is 
joined by the moisture below.
	Our mothers put limits on our water sports.  First: we had to wait an 
hour after the meal to get in the water.  Second: polio was a concern in our day 
and we didn't get to play as often as we thought we should.  Third: we were not 
allowed to swim unless our mothers were with us.  With the gardening, house 
keeping and canning, we were lucky if we got to swim two or three times a week.  
I guess that is why we spent most of our time on horseback.
	On the ridge north of the school stood a lookout tower.  In the long 
evenings we would be found always outside, either sitting on the steps, running 
up and down the fire escapes or in the front yard.  This was the only real green 
grass in the area.  It was fenced to keep cattle or horses from trampling it into the 
mirrored image of its surroundings.  This enclosure measured fifty by a hundred 
feet and was kept watered.  A large tree provided the only shade

Copyright © Marycile Beer | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry |

Murphys' Law

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

Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

Mellors math teacher

this poem is dedicated to my Mr mellors i hope he reads this

The Cop, The Math Teacher, The Guide you've been there for me when i was confused and could not see the forest or the path you were there when school was hell and life was black as midnight you were there when i screwed up and found myself trapped by my own mistakes even though i disappointed you at times and made you want to tear your hair out you were there you've always been there and cannot thank you enough Thank You Mr. Mellors

Copyright © Wolf Lief | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

Ghosts of South Dakota part 3

                     There were seven Indian Government schools.  All built alike.  The 
one I'm writing about is Spring Creek.  He Dog, Soldier Creek and White River, 
Grass Mountain, Two Kettle, and Black Pipe were the other schools.  The 
Headquarters for these schools was at Rosebud, South Dakota. 
	On some summer evenings we were able to talk our mothers into 
hiking to the lookout tower.  We followed the ankle deep sandy trail road to the 
cliff north of the school.,  A canyon lay at the foot of the tower but we climbed the 
bluff.  I don't know why we didn't explore the canyon unless it seemed dark and 
sinister.  The footing was better once we reached the summit.  The closer we got 
to the tower the taller it grew and standing at the foot of the steps looking up was 
easier than getting to the top and looking down.  My mother didn't usually make it 
to the top because she didn't like heights.  But she didn't mind being left behind 
this time.  We never could get into the building at the top because it was locked, 
but we could climb the steps to the very last one.  Even my little sister managed 
to elude mom and followed us to the top. 
	From the bluff we could look down on the garden.  My aunt grew a 
huge garden and canned the produce for the hot meals served the school 
children.  We kids didn't work in the garden very often, but we looked for the arrow 
heads and fossils.  Which, I suspect the adults probably considered the best 
place for us.
	At the end of the road, living in shack, was Old Lady Grease.  I have a 
vague recollection of seeing her.  Tiny, frail, wrinkled and gray headed is all I can 
	In spring and fall we were in school in Kansas.
	It's Christmas now.  Cold and usually snowy.  We were in a winter 
wonder land.
	I'm standing at the fire escape window.  The ghostly pale full moon is 
illuminating the naked arms of the trees as they shiver in the wind, swaying to 
and fro as if dancers in a ballet.  I listen to the winter sounds. The frigid air 
enhances their sharpness.  The ax's thud echoes up the canyon as one of the 
Indians across the river chops another supply of wood.  One of his peers beats 
on the drum.  It is one-thirty a. m.  but the thin walls of the tents do not keep the 
cold out.  Day or night this chore must be attended to for survival.

Copyright © Marycile Beer | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry |

Bitter Truths

                                  Bitter Truths

How much of bitterness is truth we cannot swallow.
The acridity of words held idle for too long, fermenting
in the cauldron of conceit, the spoils of victory flaunted
in feigned servility.  What scales measure life against
life, gain against greater gain, success against success?
Can we not savor the sweetness of another’s gifts
without coveting them, bathing them in our envy,
sullying them with our rancor?  Could we not applaud
the valor and perseverance of the triumphant, revel
in a rivalry well played, tip our equally soiled cap,
nod in an appreciation of a job well done?
Must the fist of failure pummel all who do not win,
remove the joy of competition’s camaraderie,
negate the lessons learned, the hours shared,
diminish the successes in setting and
eclipsing goals and gains.  Does not the acrid stench
of final gun fade, slowly drifting on a passing breeze?
Why must the truth hold bitter still, unable to accept
the success in every failure and the failure in
disparaging success.

John G. Lawless

Copyright © John lawless | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Ghosts of South Dakota part 2

 The surrounding grounds were prairie grasses and brush.  Trees were 
scattered along the west boundary while the eastern area was furnished with a 
heavier growth of various kinds of trees.  Willows and buffalo berry bushes lined 
the bank.  If you were so inclined this would make a perfect spot for a picnic.  
This was beyond the school grounds, grasses were tall here. 
	I mentioned the fire escape.  Boy, how we loved these appendages.  
They were situated on each end of the school. Access was from windows four 
feet off the floor in the bedrooms.  We would pull a large wicker lounge chair up 
to the window and scramble over the chair using the high back as our final step 
as we boost ourselves head first through the window.  There usually was a 
screen but it was never hooked.
	 My aunt, uncle and their three children were the only residents of this 
school for nine years.  I can't remember for sure , but the first five or six years they 
did not have electricity.  Water, but no electricity.  The last two or three years they 
had a generator.  I just loved it.  I remember how proud I was when I had gotten 
old enough to carry the kerosene lamp myself.
	The lower portion of the school had a ten foot wide hall extending the 
entire length of the school with double wide doors at both ends.  On the east of 
the school it was four steps up, in the front door, a four foot long area then up two 
steps up to the main hall.  On the right were two large class rooms.  On the left 
was the kitchen, a bathroom with showers, utility closet then the stairway up to 
the apartments and another bathroom, with showers.  An entry way leading to the 
outside where the front yard was.  The commissary, a sewing room and a 
garage large enough to house a school bus. The west end of the  hall ended 
with  four steps leading to the outside doors.
	West of the school was the building called the CANNERY, it also was 
the meeting place for the tribal members and contained three or four weaving 
looms.  A double garage with a gas pump and two large tanks for gas lay off to 
the north of the cannery.  A dense growth of trees separated the school from the 
barn.  It was a well kept large barn.  Well used I should add also.  At least by us 
kids.  Other out buildings were two quonset hut buildings and pens, a chicken 
house and a couple of sheds for the hog pen,  Which I must add was another of 
our favorite sports, riding the hogs.  All of the buildings were painted white.  It 
really was a sight to see.

Copyright © Marycile Beer | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry |

CHANGED MY Underwear,------- and My Name

change my name 
fairly often, I suppose

change my clothes 
area codes
and Imma' damn gypsy, ya' see

keep it fresh ta' death
speck of blood
ketchup on my attire

got more rhymes 
than I got grey hairs
that's an effing lot
because i got my share

digg a 
hot-fire piece of passionate verse
those are 
rare to find

if  only poets would 
unleash the fury 
instead of 
holding back
what's really 
on their mind...

I must say...
the library, 
the internet, 
the etc. etc...
would be a less stinky place...
AND, maybe 
I'd keep my name, and sever ties with 
underwear's elastic,
and just go 
APE-Spit Spastic!~

Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

The College Caravan

The College Caravan

Last night we loaded the minivan with her
suitcases, Rubbermaid vats, and chest of plastic drawers
stuffed with clothing, toiletries, school supplies, and posters.
While our vehicle is tightly packed, her room stands hollow;
drained of stuff and spirit, except for the furniture she left behind
like the last icicle melting unnoticed in the spring thaw. 
Morning’s excitement, today’s foreseen guest, found her passkey
so early, she displaced the alarm clock, announcing her presence.  
On the verge of adventure, our cramped van vacates the driveway, 	
eager to meet the other jammed vehicles joining our journey. 
Sporadic chatter splinters moments of spurned monotony,
spanning the miles amassing in our rearview mirror until …
A hatchback hauling a heavy load leads our line exiting for the rest
stop, where the parking lot hosts vehicle after vehicle stuffed with
suitcases, Rubbermaid vats, and chests of plastic drawers …
Our re-entry acceleration runs smoothly, courtesy of a 
clamshell-covered car graciously slowing to permit our advance.
From sedans to SUV’s, the right lane is flush with fenders and 
families, forming a cohesive chain whose links approach “The Exit”
signaling for the deceleration lane.  The college caravan, flowing 
onto the exit ramp and through the green light, turns and winds 
along Main Street.  As the minivans, hatchbacks, clamshell-covered 
cars, and SUV’s pour onto college campus USA, they’re carrying
suitcases, Rubbermaid vats, chests of plastic drawers,
and, of course, the proud, nervous parents …
escorting the Freshman Class of 2015! 

Copyright © Elizabeth Wyler | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |



It was the dawn of a new day;
knowledge and truth sought and given.
As I gave, so was I again taught.

(Ask, and it shall be given)

“Teacher, same said Egypt ina Africa
lak ina de Bible?”

“Same said Egypt, son;
same said Africa.”

(Seek, and you shall find)
“But Teacher,
dem neva tell we 
dat, Sah.”

(By night they stole us; by day they maimed our minds)

“I know son;
But we now teach ourselves”
our story.”

“Ah true, Teacher; ah true.
Dis day be a new day dat’a com.”

(Truth, trampled to the ground, always rises)

Free your mind and you are;
but like butterflies, be aware
of the rain.

(The truth shall set you free)

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Walking to School

A walk to school out of the backdoor, through the homemade back gate, through a narrow alley,
Cars parked on the curb, guarded by paraffin lamps, no garages, no parking area,
Walking down my road, past the bully's house, all is very, very quiet, careful
Then the front door opens, a big kid comes running and chases me down the road.

Near the end of my street was a large piece of wasteland, called "the logs"
Huge logs cut down hundreds of years ago, grey, split, tall trees chopped down,
Stinging nettles in large clumps, cars abandoned, a play ground for children,
Into a road full of bungalows, the posh side, people looking through curtains.

About a mile down this road, there was more wasteland, with a muddy shortcut,
Shoes covered in mud, trying to clean them with an old bit of paper, no good,
Out of the wooded shortcut, past the entrance of a railway, through a tunnel,
On the other side, up steps was a sweet shop, looked through window, no money.

Past the bank on to a main road, told many times to look left and right, careful,
Walking up another street, then a short cut through, an old mansion falling apart,
Down the coke covered road, into a road where huge flats were being built, ugly flats.
The into my school play ground, seeing class mates, queuing up to go into the school.

Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |


If there is a child in Kolahun, Lofa County who can’t read- that matters to me.

If there is a senior citizen somewhere who can’t get a pension after many years of dedicated service- that makes my life poorer.

If a decent brother is accused of rape and is being rounded up without a benefit of an Attorney or due process- that threatens my civil liberty.

If a native Liberian is down sided for an elite- that overshadows my equal right clause in the constitution.

If a high school graduate cannot be honor with a job, but the only option left is to hawk on the streets to earn a hard living- I wonder what society is being created for the young generation.   

Copyright © JAMES B. MORRIS JR | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |


Seniors drooling on their desk waiting for their final test. While us freshman sit and wait for 
the final day upper classmen can make fun of us even thought they are jealous. We have 
our whole life ahead of us. While they sit and turn to dust behind office desks knowing, 
thinking class of 2014 is the best. We learn from their mistakes while they're at Sam's 
baking cakes. Of course they had it a little better their freshman year because the teachers 
weren't as experienced and have learned from the seniors experiences as well. Well now it's 
five minutes until the final bell.

Copyright © Angel LeeAnn | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry |

An Ceiling

We cut out our windows so they'd match the pattern in the stars we'd fall asleep looking at
screaming your name over and over only produced tears and a ruptured larynx
Whispering it only tore down the walls that held us together

of all the mistakes I've made
the worst one was when I said I loved myself when in the end I was the worst friend I ever had

her teen years were spent mostly on her knees
holding two jobs
split between boys cars and church pews
If I loved you any more it would turn into hate
or maybe it's already there
at this point I'm not sure

we speak in riddles sometimes
almost asking questions but never failing with backhanded compliments and floor ridden apologies

I had the best time of my life in April
a night when all I did was break my own heart
it was at that point I knew for sure I had one

Copyright © K.M North | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Education is Power

Who is in charge of our children's education?
What happens when parents don't do their job?
When children have no sense of reading, writing,
till they hit that school room head on?

Who is responsible to initiate, ingratiate, the word,
so language is understood from infancy and
not suddenly at five years old when
communication receives the attention it deserves?

Parents stand up and take notice
schools do not provide the only source
You are your child's first teacher
You are the one who gives him voice.

From you he will learn expression
From you he will learn who he is
From you he will learn his roots
Give him your love and attention.

Provide an environment filled with books
A place where reading takes precedence
Instill in him a joy for learning
With gentle hand and loving looks.

Model the love of learning
read on your own or with
till without even knowing
he'll develop a yearning
to know, to explore, to evaluate
all there is and more.

Copyright © Natala Orobello | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |

Stutter Step, Hands Open, Lights Fade, We Are Nothing In This Darkness

milestones are marked by photographs

by notches on door casings that show just how grown up we are getting

by midnights spent on front porch stoops with people we only half know drinking mixtures that taste as awful as they should but let the words and movements come fast and steady knowing that it's the only time loose lips are the only things sinking ships

We were children growing up in the backseats of parents who rarely spoke to each other

the children who blossomed into the worst love poems we only pretended to read

As children we played games in the backseat
I spy 
middle seat smash
guess which song
then, sometime during the middle of awkward slow dances with fresh braces and clothes our parents picked out we stopped getting up early in the morning

we stopped counting down the days until christmas

we started playing games in the backseat
feet tucked or feet spread
windows down or windows steamed
i've never, 
that time changed from clueless to reckless to clothesless lasts only the length of a song
the radio cuts out in some spots around French Hill but still plays Freshman by The Verve Pipe 

as we close our eyes

mouths open

breath fluttering like heartbeats

we were no longer children
not yet adults but we knew every line to every song we liked and we knew the most honest places we had and what happened when we held our breathe for too long during the bass line

Copyright © K.M North | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |


 (Dedicated to Dana Rugina)

On that very cool and refulgent evening
Flying from Europe to Africa
Luck placed me beside you
How beautiful it was to look at your pretty face
How wonderful to know you are from Romania
How pleasant it was to have a seat beside you
How glad I was to know you are a mathematician
Though accented, paid kin attention to listen to me
I had a smooth and sweet flight
Not because it was an Egypt Airline nor that I sat in business class
But because you keep my company
“Is your final destination Egypt?” ignited our conversation
“A man that keeps quite will die” will I always remember
Because they are words of wisdom
I believe I’ll see you again
Friend on the flight
Where and when, that I cannot say. 

(c) 2011

Copyright © Joshua Akinwande | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |

Cottons Southern Man

More than a man, the south made.
Black and white, south one started, 
great oaks refused no man a child
to hang about it, call dark christmas.
Hallow was a name, old now hollow.
Stigma inside wears grey cotton
memories, alive die uncompensated.
Here, electricity has that sick sweet  
smell about it, as if it were once alive.
While morality, debates in pockets 
of isolated votes packed together.

Is It Poetry

Copyright © Poetry Is It | Year Posted 2009

Details | Prose Poetry |

Tea Break

Let me have a cup of tea 
Much before I get Free
Let me have it while busy
Wait! Let me finish first
I will feel then relaxed 
Then get me a cup of tea 

Copyright © khalid raza | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry |

Teenage Love 19: 2010-present

When it comes to young love, it's a beautiful thing for young people from around the world. 
And when it comes to teen boys and teen girls falling in love with each other since the day they 
met, it's like fireworks popping in the sky. Their moms and dads are either happy about it or 
inapproving or whatever. It seems to everybody that most relationships among all teenagers 
might even last to either 72 hours or a lifetime. That's a really long time, but then, if these two 
young lovebirds want to stay together, even until their high school reunions, then that's fine. 
Sometimes love will make young men and/or young women do some silly things or whatever, 
but love doesn't; it's just an emotional feeling for teen boys and teen girls combined. Their 
parents (the moms and the dads) should also know what their lives were like when they were 
teenagers, especially since the day they fell in love with each other. Young love has 
revolutionized the year 2010 and it'll revolutionize the future of all of the would-be teen 
couples. This is starting to get very interesting. It looks like the junior/senior high school years 
will be with all of the wound-be-then teen love birds for the rest of their natural lives. All 
relationships among all young people will not just continue to increase every single day, but no 
matter what the circumstances of young relationships or whaterer, it'll seem that day in and 
day out, all of the young lovers (all teen boys and all teen girls) will always have love for each 
other, and their parents are very happy about it. And if young love continues to grow and grow 
by the time the year 2025 arrives, there's no telling what beautiful thing might happen next.

Copyright © Brashard Bursey | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |


That furniture at Grandma’s house has never had a;
Behind, sit down directly on it-
The plastic had duct tape overtop
Where something sharp had pierced a hole
This sofa, that had lasted 30 years… unscathed.
The sofa also had another decorative cover with
Big crazy flowers over top of the plastic.
That furniture had a story to tell and secrets to keep.
That old sofa told the walls to hush, and to never mind the
Shadows it had seen moving methodically, as the street lights
Beamed in, while the household was asleep.
The old sofa whispered to the floors to stop creaking, as we
Tipped-toed back n forth to the fridge, drinking up the
Kool-Aid in the sweltering summer heat,
A quiet breeze swept gently through the open window; 
To help Induced Grandma’s sleep.
Somehow a fly managed to get
through some small tear in the screen.
The fly was the only living witness, 
As to what went on that night.
Those were the kind of nights, that babies were made.
Sunday morning: Too sleepy for church,
Curls sweated out and "edges nappy" once again.
Years later after the plastic was hard, yellow,
And the flowers were faded.
The once bright fabric had been
Given in to the years of washing.
We gathered around the small
Living room at Grandma’s house
Sharing stories of how we were not
Allowed to sit directly on the sofa:
And reminiscing, of making tents on the
Floor as we watched scary movies
On the television.
After Grandma’s memorial service, and all the
Aunts uncles and cousins had left.
I kept that old beat up looking sofa,
Took it to my house, and ripped the plastic off it.
To my surprise the sofa now an heirloom
Looked spanking brand new… I said to myself
“If Grandma only knew”.
As I was fluffing up the pillows and clearing out the
Coins and other debris; I noticed an old polaroid
Photo lost in the crevice of the sofa;
There it was the lost picture of me
And my prom date, now husband.
All these years we had wondered
What ever happened to our prom picture.
Well, that day for the first time,
I sat on that sofa without cover or plastic.
I stared at the picture for a while:
Oh my, I remembered;
We had gone out to have burgers,
Paid for our prom pictures, 
And went to the after party;
Came straight to my house afterward,
As there was no money left for motel…
Excited to share this discovery, I
Waited for my husband to come home…and said,
“Honey look what I found” ...
The happy amazement on his face, priceless!
We laughed and said teasingly ... 
“Let us be thankful for this sofa
That has kept our secret so well” (chuckle)
We made love again like we had on that blissful night;
Only this time the sofa could breathe –
After which, we laughed hard, remembering
How we had decided that, the noisy fly 
{knew too much, and had to die}!

Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2017

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Lawn

I grew up in a house that had a huge green lawn in the backyard.
It ended at the edge of a steep hill. When I stood on it, I felt suspended
as if I was floating just above the small town below.

I remember basking in the sun on this soft, pampered suburban lawn--
hot summer afternoons made it too hot to move, no breeze, and
lizards scurrying by to break the silence, interrupt daydreams.

As I think back to being eye-level in that green blade jungle; 
I think of all the feet that have crossed there. 
Bare feet and boots, high-heels and the delicate hooves of deer--
All the memories that have walked away.

Copyright © Tamra Amato | Year Posted 2009

Details | Prose Poetry |

Catholic School Girls

Catholic School Girls always seem demure and calm,
cloistered beneath the walls of sanctity their
imaginations roam, dying to be set free,
repressed by the cloaks of chastity
they long to grow up and set their hearts
ablaze, but the religious life and their parents,
keeps their daydreaming in a haze,
until boys start piquing their curiosity
and their hearts start beating rampantly,
All the golden rules they have learned,
goes out the window and infatuation takes its place,
Sometimes the crushes they display takes them all the 
way into a life they are not ready for, then there are the times
when their feelings get spurned, making them think they have 
nowhere to turn, causing little women to think of the unusual,
such as elaborate stories to get their way,
especially when their secret love interests stop 
giving them the time of day.

Copyright © Margeret Bailey | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |


There is a student living on the SIXTH floor of the lieberry because the computer 
will not let him use it and he can never find a seat even if the place is still half 
empty. He starts near the doorway in the lower deck of the student only area of 
the information commons (yes it's still open to the public but no one ever sits 
there) then he walks up threw the main part where all the students sit and copy 
parts of pictures with some text all meant to be some grand and glorious cosmic 
joke for they seem to be working for the printers ink for the printer just to work just 
to go on printing one more grand and glorious joke. He skips the second floor 
where there is sabios and goes up to the eterminals then he stays a while and 
droll he is thinking he may play a game an actual computor game but no no one 
gets up no one leaves the area he lurches up the stairs now on a dead run 
moving quickly past the remains of the few sabio left that work for searching 
books no internet throwing up on the outdoor rug as he nears the sixth floor stop. 
He lost his mind in 1963 using LDS drugs and playing with his own autonomy he 
leaves this world in agony as he sits upon the roof of the Hayden lieberry he 
looks down at the canopy covering the awning of the entrance and he 
contemplates a jump but he is way too chicken now for lunch he eats his heart. 

Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2008

Details | Prose Poetry |


How do I put my life in a frame? It would
make my Soul so delightful if I can put it in 
a fram and hang it o the wall for all to see. 
If I put my Soul in a frame, it will fall and crash
to the floor because it is too weak to hang.
You can hang me with nails; hopefully, I'll stay up.

I look at my pictures from my childhood. Some from 
catholic school, my 1st Holy Communion, and even 
from my high school graduatioon; they make me
sick to look at them because of all the pain
from the past.

Maybe, one day I will be able to paint a beautiful 
picture of my Soul and hang it on the frame; 
polished and free from wounds.

Copyright © Bernadette Ignaciuk | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry |

Little Lies, Little Lies

The truth
The truth is an illusion
An illusion which we try to interpret
To interpret and to individualise
To individualise into our own lies when we don’t like it.

Copyright © Neal Freeland | Year Posted 2008

Details | Prose Poetry |

an angel

An angel.

I thought I saw an angel today when I was remembering you.
You are in my waking day, I dream its just me and you.

When I go and walk a while I think your by my side
And then I remember the truth of it all and that you had to die.

I don’t know why im so confused
They say death is  part of life
But you were so little my love
You had not lived your life.

They say you have gone to heaven
And that you are a star
But I don’t believe them, not at all
I just know that you are far

I hope one day I will see you again 
And we will smile and laugh and dance
And I wait with anticipation for the day
That I will get another chance.

I love you

Copyright © Jessica Long | Year Posted 2011