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Prose Poetry Tribute Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Tribute

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

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Details | Prose Poetry |


SOME STARS SHINE BRIGHTER Some stars shine brighter Some waves crash stronger Some winds blow warmer Some days are lovelier Some friendships are eternal... During our lives we meet a lot of people But some will conquer a special place in our hearts They'll be the ones for whom We'll fight a little harder We'll cry a little stronger We'll cheer a little louder We'll worry a lot over They are the ones That will always be there for you Laughing with your happiness Holding you during your tears Some are in the same city Others on a continent away The distance doesn't matter For we carry them always In our minds and in our hearts So they're never really far away from our thoughts So my dear and sweet friend Thank you for allowing me in your life For always be there for me Thanks for being my rock You've a heart of gold The most beautiful soul Your light shine thru your poems Your care and attention thru your words I'll be always here for you too Cheering for you every step of your way... Take care of yourself and come back to us fast... And... never forget... To just be yourself Because you're simply perfect Just the way you are... ...and very much loved, my dear friend... Love you, Darren March 28th, 2017

Copyright © Claudia Polydoro | Year Posted 2017

Details | Prose Poetry |

Mother Teresa and I

Mother Teresa
She is the mother of every poor people, injured people, ordinary people...

Always we remember the great news
'Mother Teresa will get the Nobel Peace Prize.'
It was one of the best moment in our life...

She lived in our city Kolkata (Calcutta) .
She ate our Bengali foods.
She loved us so much...

One day, I was twelve years old
I met  her at Mother House along with my parents.
I looked at her heavenly eyes.
I touched her sacred feet and hands.
I heard her divine speeches.
I love her innocent smile.

I told her only the sentences, 
'You are the mother of the world, 
Mother of my parents.
So you are my grandmother.'

My father hesitated. My mother was silent.

Mother Teresa said to me with smile, 

Today my eyes are full of tears
Mother, I miss you. 
I love you so much....


(Mother Teresa founded the Missionaries of Charity, a Roman Catholic religious congregation, which in 2012 consisted of over 4,500 sisters and is active in 133 countries. They run hospices and homes for people with HIV/AIDS, leprosy and tuberculosis; soup kitchens; dispensaries and mobile clinics; children's and family counselling programmes; orphanages; and schools. Members of the institute must adhere to the vows of chastity, poverty and obedience, and the fourth vow, to give "wholehearted free service to the poorest of the poor".

Mother Teresa was the recipient of numerous honours including the 1979 Nobel Peace Prize. In 2003, she was beatified as "Blessed Teresa of Calcutta". A second miracle credited to her intercession is required before she can be recognised as a saint by the Catholic Church.)

Copyright © Sandip Goswami | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |


'' I love my country! I love my India! "
We hear slogans loud and clear,
On 15th August, on 26th January,
When the days of celebrations are near.

Where do these promises die?
Are these patriotic feelings a lie?
Or just to make an impression,
And snap pictures as tri-colors fly.

Apart from these days,do we see the need?
To apply these emotions, do we pay the heed? 
Or just a way to celebrate something,
Like every other event and gathering.

Remember that ugly era,
Where days were like nights,
Where no one was allowed to dream,
And were suppressed when there were fights.

Remember the atrocities against which,
Our previous generations suffered,
The whips from the '' Outsiders'' 
When rejected '' Their '' rules offered, 

From heinous crimes against goodwill,
" Jallian wala bagh"  to "Simon go back!",
After so much struggle and so much pain,
To fight for freedom which we lacked!

Sacrifices which cannot be measured,
Patriotism where sky is the limit,
Refusing the injustice and opposing the system,
To free the country from the"foreign" hit. 

Gandhi, Nehru, Patel or Bose,
Difference in name, feelings the same, 
Salute everyone and the sky glows,
With only respect and not due to fame. 

Why do we forget our history of freedom?
How can we not respect and honor its prestige?
And witness our nation in such a dirt? 
Of politics, corruption, crime in fatigue?
Why not raise your voice? 
Against these social evil deeds?
And give our patriotism meaning,
To the nation on which we feed. 

Its October 2nd some days from now,
And no one would admire Gandhi's work,
A formality completed, a speech given,
While actual celebrations are somewhere in cirque,

Friday it is, the new film day,
And We ll watch movies in this holiday,
Give a thought to what you do,
Give a sense to what you say,
Slogans and tricolor turbans wont help,
If country's rising generation is watching movies in national holiday,
Be responsible and step up for the nation,
And make it a country, you can be proud of,
Where women are respected not only on women's day,
But with true sense of love in each and every way.

Copyright © Suraj Grover | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |


MY UKHT AL-KUBRA I have one sister in my home Sweet, loving, with open arms and heart With dark brown eyes And an inviting laugh And a passion For life. I have a sister at Soup Sweet, loving, with open arms and heart Both my sisters are so different Yet one thing is the same: I love them both With all of my heart. My sister at home has her Arabic name. My sister at Soup stil hasn't. To me she is an inspiration. So, my dear inspirational sister, Below your name in my language: ILHAME - INSPIRATION The picture is Ilhame in Arabic calligraphy (pronunciation: eel-am) Your Kalakeolelo

Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |


In China once
under a patched
sail canopy

at tables and stools
and later

remembering days
when all
seemed all

the politics with friends
by day

and how the breeze
by night conspired 

her golden hair.

Now I watch
the honey-drapped fishing-dingies


like strays
of twilight

they glide in 

finally to settle
in place

where they rock

all night

under a surrender
of stars

Everything moving to its orbit
Everything seperating in time


All the mistakes
the misunderstandings

off on their own trajectories

fullfilling their own destinies

All but the waitress here
who moves still

like a silken dream 
across the sea-dimmed floor

bringing pots of hot
all night long

never saying a word
not a single word

just smiling
her knowing smile

Copyright © Robert Warlov | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

Dedication To All My Poetry Friends

                  ~Dedication To All My Poetry Friends~

My head is spinning my ears are ringing my system is living 
my singing don't know why I felt like writing with no books 
just words to explain my remarkable intentions after meeting
all of you through our poetry. 

Although I had average education, that is why when I write poetry
I have only one way of sharing my feelings, and it is the simplest 
way, the way I talk casually and I try to be proud of myself, especially 
when I read poems written by all of you, such deep words, such smooth 
lines, quality, beautiful, rhyming, your writings are pieces of rare art, 
and I am flattered and honored to have had the opportunity to be 
accepted by all of you.

I had low esteem of myself for not ever trying to force
my dad to allow me to continue my studies well now its too late,
but I can write with pride as I am self educated to write poetry 
between thousands of very highly intellectual colleagues.

When I am with everyone of you, I am so impressed by your writing skills
nothing seems impossible our discussions through writing and reading 
changed the course of my dreams and added hope for another tomorrow.

When I am with all of you, I feel so fortunate to have met
everyone of you through sharing our poetry and comments
I will look forward for deeper friendships. 
When I am reading your poems it awakens in me a stronger 
intellectual consciousness. 
Thank you for allowing me to have a new life,
with immense happiness. 

Poem of Dedication....... Sandy Ivy D

Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Kiss of Honor, a Memorial Day Tribute

Frantic searching for my sanity as the odor of explosives and burning flesh assault my soul.  Longing for the boredom of stuffy barracks my eyes my friends constantly search for your return I hide all but fear.

We know the death of friends but in our life embrace we conceal all that is deferred for recollection in our final days.  For now bravado, lots of scotch, and a Thai stick sets the pattern for our only security.

Lost are the joys of spirit we envisioned as children; gone is the clarity and respect for lives easily expended in the most secret of a nation’s honor, generalities served in a bitter beer.

I know you friend, your dreams your plans you say them softly in your sleep.  Our  prayers to will keep you safe.

We dare to plan in-country encouraged by being too short not to let our minds drift at the possibilities.  

We hope that God is truly on our side and confess only in our eyes the sins we speak to no one.

The blood of those we do not know anoints the heads of those we do and love for now, until our final taps brings us home.  

With this kiss of honor I embrace what remains of you my friend and your courage.  I curse your departure and salute the honor of our time together.

Copyright © Violetta Antonia Sorcini | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Culture Since Ages

After the evolution of fire,
Man’s wise discovery for survival
Was the indispensible culture
Of raising crops.

It came through their ancestors,
They created fields of happiness.

Albeit accurate in their perspective of culture,
They were unaware of the modern complications,
But they believed their culture and worshiped it.

The men were a collision of knowledge and tradition.
The emergence of modern period has viewed agriculture
as an economic activity.
But the men had become an inspiration for the youth.

Their hard work has served the nation enormously.
But the country left them with no land 
And dearth of them is the worst.

Their successful revolutions had led to victory,
History holds their strive, 
As long as we realise their importance,
We would thrive! 

A tribute to farmers..............

Copyright © Aishwarya vr | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |


I love you with all my heart we will never be worlds apart

If by chance you went away

Please just trust in what i say

Your in my heart each and everyday

My love for you will always stay and it will never sway

Even if time stood still my love for you never will

You are my hero I must admit and that I will not forget

You held my hand when I was in pain and it was not in vein

I could not ask for more

Your the reason I was born...

Copyright © Tiffany Flowers | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |


Day by day we pray to stay alive, ladies, the face of this world is slowly changing, no longer do we need to hold our heads in disgrace, and it’s about time we take our place. No longer let us be connived, nor let us forget the silent cries in trees that our sista’s souls are still hangin’, see the true in others denies rather waistin’ yourself complaining. Nor keep us from strength to stand by man, strength to leave if struck by hand, no more bruises upon our face for we also help to make this race. No more scars upon our souls for only marked with beauty moles and let our stories be fortold for we are women who behold, a key to inspiration and moral pride, coming out of our hide, Gods rules are to which one should only apply, but most chose pain to keep inside, left alone and died. Your elimination of God’s creation, we are but faith to this nation. Men of ignorance we are sick of belligerence, cuz we prove intelligence, cuz where there’s no woman there is no man strong and on this land we belong as distinct and separate persons walk along. Before your ignorance get the respect that you so vainly seek, practice what you claim til' all things you do or speak shall in reality be the same, nor let us be so eased to blame and give us our well earned past due fame, all musical and sorrowful stories contained. My people, make me proud to know your name and I’ll return the favour by doing the same.
For all men whom think us fast, remember the good ones always finish last, we women are still raped future and past so personally you can kiss my ... In us your babies wombs all your life fluids we consume, to mothers growing up too soon, to those mommas babies and daddy’s maybes.....REMEMBER, when your round to actin' shady, we are the ladies of this land, women with pride we stand, I am a WOMAN and for equal respect, I would do it again!!!

Copyright © amy epiphany tunks | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

You left me in The Apostrophe

  (  Where lions are born - [ Not Africa ] - The Topography   )

You left me in the apostrophe,
Between the show-case'd artist's offerings, and the self-help aisles,
the pictures of Thoreau and Hemingway, and the broken helpless wanderers.

Already, I knew you were gone- didn't recognise you.
You were someone else, suddenly, mysteriously unfamiliar to me; no longer, "Family".
I could barley look. I could barley look away.

Vanquished, you were vanquished, like the lost, self-help coterie.

'How do I approach this stranger to ask; 'what is wrong'?'

'Or this is a mistake. Maybe my love of science fiction has finally "gotten the better of me".

'Take a pill, man'... the thought formed. A real life: "Invasion of The Body Snatchers".

It wasn't possible that I didn't know her- not possile she had been hiding all those years.
But, if so, why, what would be the point? Was I Dracula? The Wolf man?

You left me in mid sentence, in mid-stride- my love I mean, in mid-stride.

Twenty years is long enough to become familiar; family.

You wandered away with the children then, and I let you go.

I went to the Philosophy section where they included Metaphysics, Cultural Anthology, New Age Spirituality and more.

Many of these were familiar to me, but nothing about healing a broken heart stood-out; a broken psycii. Maybe I should return to the broken people sidling along in the broken book's aisle.

And what course of action lay before me? Do I broach the subject, or allow her to speak first?

You left me in the dark, between a relentless firey hope and a horrendous knell's acceptance, rendered blind without even the sense of danger I was in, what truly lay ahead.

'Would it really be possible to create a new life... out of what... what's left? What IS left?'

You came to me like a prisoner, and left me in the cell.

Even if your love failed, mine did not and insisted that I fight for you, even if it meant fighting You, because I believed, I had to believe, "Love never fails"- Love Must Not Ever Fail!

Building a new psycii from scratch! That's a labor cut-out for the "certified" professionals.

I walked on roads, both real and metaphorical, saying into a miniature tape-recorder the words, repeating the language that must somehow give birth to me again.

Cast into the horrid echoing void- frightful burrow of mind- stumbling over Satanic Joy's lie.

And only prayer left. Agony's strains to move the dumb heavens, confound the wise angles, and turn the ear of god.

But a seed must fall to the ground and die.

and the music rose-up and the words,

"A seed must fall to the ground and die".

But that's His Story.

I am the one born of that conflagration, that fall.

I rise in the world born of this truth- This truth I have- This truth I carry. It's all that's left me, and It's all I need.

I rage against every sun-wrecked and ridiculous heart, mock every miserable tear, and present the topography of that one true place called eternity.

It is there that love exists. I too, because love never fails. I exist!

Copyright © Robert Warlov | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |


Open Letter To The Golden Black Angel

The black angel on earth, the one proud of her skin
The hot chocolate in Africa, the one with glorious power
The ebony strength beneath the sun, the one full of sensuous splendor.

The golden black angel, the one flying the clouds
The shining star in the rich land, the woman defining beauty
The rich, the warm, the dark, the glittering flower breathing in Africa.

Just look at her eyes, the narrow eyes sliding to the sides
Just give a glance to her ruby lips, these syrupy, luscious and tepid lips
Just stare closely at her smile, am sure you are zooming the sun.

I feel her hypnotizing presence, the soothing aroma in the world
I feel her soporific nature, the one that naturally sends me to the sky
I feel her wafting movements, the movements worth every sane eye
I feel her tantalizing voice, Scandalizing my ears to lick it.

Am i forgetting her curves, the curves surpassing enchanted love potions?
Am i forgetting her manners, the manners giving me bedroom tendencies?
How can i? How can i not talk of the African woman? Eh? Tell her i adore her

Yours African,
Mzee Mwau.

Copyright © EMMANUEL MWAU | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |


I walk
I talk
I possess an image
That image
I am the woman

The woman who is 
In absolute possession
Of the courage
As brave as a warriors staff
The woman who knows her rights 
And fights for it
I am the woman
With the “man”

I feel 
I heal
I possess a heart
That heart
I am the woman

The woman with 
An inner child
With an overflowing joy
With no worries bigger
The woman whose gleeing spirit
Brings hope to all
I am the woman
With the “womb”

I make
I create
I possess an art
That art
I am the woman

The woman herself
Stringing together
All pieces of earth
And soothing the broken
The woman whose arms
Wraps those she loves
I am the woman
That woman…

©Naa Takia, All Rights Reserved 2012

Copyright © Victoria Nunoo | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

the strength of death

O death!!! Why is the 
reason behind your actions 
Where can our oceans meet
That l may accuse you of 
injuctice and wickedness
Why does your action 
transform vibrancy to 
nothing but dust.
Why, why but why?
Why leaving the 
condemned to commit 
more atrocities and 
The just spend but a 
This may be because you 
don't want them to have a 
hard taste of corruption
Through your actions;
Homes are broken,
Hearts are divided,
Tears and pains abound
Think, think, thinkless death

Copyright © PRINCE IFEOLUWA DANIEL SHANU-OLU | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |


I remember the first time I saw you
You were a bundle of cuteness
With your huge ears
And unstoppable wagging tail

My heart choose you at first sight
You choose us too 
When you snuggled in my arms
And gave a content sigh

Placing your head on my shoulder
You went to sleep in my arms
Safe, loved and trusting
You completed our lives
You became family

But time is merciless
And the years started to weight on your shoulders
You couldn't run so fast anymore
Nor play with your favorite toys
You didn't had the energy to dig up crabs on the beach 
Nor run chasing birds

Until the day we noticed you couldn't jump on the sofa
Until the day we noticed that you were tired

Now we're left with the hardest decision
To let you rest your tired little body
To let you go to the Rainbow bridge...
To say goodbye...

We did our best for you
You were loved for the whole time you stayed with us
You had a happy, loved and long life.

Now you can rest my love...
We'll hold you until your last breath
Our faces will be the last thing you'll see before you sleep for the last time.

And when you wake up in the other side,
You'll find yourself surrounded by angels
Your body young and strong again
Able to run, and jump and bark...

So be patient love, and wait for us
Wait with the angels
We'll Keep you in our hearts
Until the day that we can meet again

I love you now, tomorrow and for eternity... 

In memory of my beloved XUXÚ
06/09/1999 - 19/11/2016

Copyright © Claudia Polydoro | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Natural starting points

Natural starting -Point 

 The subject of a poem is the idea or thing that the poem concerning or represents
 I review about 15 poem this morning.. and the feeling I got from them, the writer attitude
 toward the subject matter.
As a reviewer I cannot praise all the poems that I review. however, I can only encourage them to thrive ... some had a bit or irony , the tone were playful and some of them were some serious submits

Poetry Soup is a wonderful site...
let encourage each other to aim higher..

one love annie L

Copyright © Annie Lander | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

To Virginia With Love

To Virginia with Love

Your being first 
Became a bitter sweet
Leaving a shamed keloid
On the face of history; and
Now each day’s a Nebuchadnezzar
Dawning; and in tomorrow’s tomorrow
You will overcome
Spawning peace, love and unity
In the oneness of your diversity.

N.B.:  Forgiven but not forgotten, 
           I’m beginning to love you.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

For Dead Poets That Yet Live

 For Dead Poets Who Yet Live

The earth swallowed you—
spitting out seeded words
 to linger like dusty books; 
pages yellowing on rotting shelves.

Like your blood,
your ink well has dried—died.

we go in search of mangers—seeking 
the resurrected word—crying out.

Old poets—at last—die; but
their words are reborn
in the pregnant minds left behind.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |



Copyright © steven williams | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Phenomenal Angel- Maya Angelou Tribute

You are too dark, 
too unimportant,
your stomach is bulging,
they said..
Thank God for this angel,
she didn't let negativity settle in my head,
Although I am a man,
I never thought the day would come when I would see,
myself not as a failure but phenomenally,
Ms. Angelou was a single mother,
the struggle was difficult I know it,
but she still found time to become America's favorite poet, 
her words were like animals running free on a meadow,
never ending like rejection by the world while living in a ghetto,
who ever thought a black woman from Missouri could recite a poem at the inauguration,
Ms. Angelou,
you are the face of our cultures perpetuation,
you gave faith and hope to many,
including me,
Thank you angel for teaching us to live,

Copyright © Jesse Pickens | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

My Uncles' Hands Were Strong

     My Uncles’ Hands Were Strong…
My uncles’ hands were strong:
fathering children they never had.
My uncles’ hands were strong;
yet gentle like the chiseled hands
of Michelangelo’s Pieta:
strong saintly shooting hands
that touched tender souls with gentleness 
only undying love could give.

On their bent backs
rose a Siamese nation
of oppressors and the oppressed:
a Janus nation whose face reflected
mockery of its supposed democracy.

My uncles’ hands were strong;
strong like steel hammers and anvils:
strong fisted hands breaking chattel chains.

Yes, my uncles’ hands were strong:
and the strong men just keep coming on…!

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

MOMENTS STAYED a phrasis tribute

A prelude to perfect light,an image
traced from clouds of silence and
primal gloom.Things once unseen
now evolved as subtle harmonies
in sudden flight.A verse to ponder
from thoughts stirred,shadows now
shifted ,once more  by others 
seen and ....heard

Tribute in structured prose  inspired by American poet John B Tabb 

You may hear me recite from my 4000+ PS anthology on youtube under my pen name ichthyschiro..

catch my short forms @strandpoet on twitter..

read my kindle guides on amazon

Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Difference in the Stories We Want to Tell

Ohh I could have sat with my heart 
--elevated with dribbled echoes-- 
ahhhhhh until it yet exhaled the tarnished seams 
capturing only the quiet current lapping
and soaking dirty steel embankment	
along the river’s edge beneath the elevators 
and rusted railway overpass.. listening
as if the very markings and where they were; 
was the point we reached.

But the difference in the stories we want to tell 
and the ones we hear ourselves tell to others 
or even the stories we tell to ourselves
are not the ones that actually happen
but the ones we hope get told about ourselves.

And from the dragged busy avenues 
Elliott’s is lingering, scorching, 
scrapping placed black glances 
at the difference which came in-between 
looks all around; when his body was found;
so the driving but squeezed remains 
that forms the murky waste, leaking out,
resituates away from that easy smack-like 
wake from motors fishtailed in two sets 
slipped through to the ends of the river 
not only smaller than we were
before or within the mainstream surrounding, 
but finer in every such note 
and so much more perfectly 
in slow-mo oddity than the overgrowth 
of foliage, and into that which will be told.

Has ever found thee exact sounds
so singly in the noises as that whispering...
and where it goes when pulled without hesitating, 
you know in the rifts against echoes
dribbling up to the suspended girders
crossing the murky rivers 
to where the old muffling coursing veins, 
ripped off in visions and the 
anticipations and expectations in your head… 
ever even came so close to
so close to the conclusions? 

Yet in the swift side-vanished sky like wet pavement
but wet against the embankment, it dries
on in an afternoon of no humidity…. finally evaporates, 
over and over lapping different intervals,
the ceaseless figuring where the world, 
where every second instantly goes, dried
turning distorted there in the levels 
marvelously skimmed amidst memory; 
stones worth plucking and thrown
just over the very edge 
and almost displaying the wavery stain 
the rotten that seems brilliantly with near looks 
at the river, as the thin air carved upon it, 
and the little slick gleams of algae
and smooth enormous stacks billowing 
so repetitively with sad-shaped exhausting…
and tough cracks and windshields 
of broken cars, cranked glares near hard looks; 
as if the science ever inside of them literatures 
of our fantastic drag towards them
knew with impossible expectations 
that gets pulled away from 
oh how I suppose this sort of thing 
is supposed to go;
and into the very real dream the poet
could have reasoned, to go…

Songsmith sung that ever-longing undone;
for an explanation,– 
finds that long lost answer 
and with that fled so so long 
so so long ago to thee ends of so so far away… 
and unravels there … over and over;
at the metal corners of the enormous sections 
of the state of the proverbial peaceful 
miniature edges running beside themselves;
that enormous scraping, listening to him
around the uneven like dark shadows 
at the weed cut-up back shoulders
that fall apart further in the seams above;
sitting where split beams violate visions 
through these white streams careening any which way 
upon an invisibly shaping formation 
and coloring the ever-bending 
turned like a spoon round into a bowl of water; 
that ruptured crooked, flowing impression.

Copyright © Elliott Lyngreen | Year Posted 2017

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Tribute to Breast Cancer

Today, I take this walk
A walk for the cure
I will stand for the ones 
Who sees life as a blur
Finding out the the most devastating news
Feeling upset,hurt and confused
A disease that affects the body
It makes you feel strange 
Adapting to A new life 
Adapting to A new change
Chemotherapy, radiations
So many trials and tribulations
My heart goes out to what you're facing
I'll wear this ribbon ?? with pride
And if you ever need a friend
I'll be right by your side 
It takes a lot to understand
That this illness wont get the upper hand 
A transformation you did go through
Losing your hair, wearing wigs this is something new
No longer knowing who you are
In our hearts you're still a star
It takes Courage, even when you feel discouraged 
It takes faith, even when you cant see clear
You are our Hope
From the climbing of a rope
You are the strength
You are strong
You fought this battle
But not alone
A moment of silence 
Goes to the ones who didn't survive
You were great
We'll continue to keep your legacy alive
I salute you, yes I do
No more suffering or pain
We release these balloons 
In honor and remembrance of your name
With these two feet
I walk  for You
Susan G. Komen and so many others
You are my inspiration
You have did everything its taken
You're amazing this is true
The Illness cant get the best of you 
Women oh no ?? this is not just for you
Men are known to get it to
I love you and you have all my respect
Do me a favor everyone please go get checked!!!!!!

Written By:Concetta Hardnett

Copyright © concetta hardnett | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

YOUR Signature Part 1 of 2

" YOUR  Signature  ... "

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

YOUR  Signature ...
Scrolls On Each Wave of The Sea
As It Starts To Signal
With The Smallest, Written-Water-Ripple
YOUR Beautifully, Bold-Signed Name ...
Is In Each Crystal, Droplet Initial ...

YOUR  Signature ...
Reflects, Embossed Upon All Skies
Floating In Bright Cloud-Notes
and Brilliantly Arc'd Written-Rainbows
And In The Sun's Flourish-Omega-Flares
... YOUR  Radiant Calligraphy - - Glows ...

And YOUR  Signature ...
Has Atop Each Imprinted 'I' Or 'J' As Symbols
... A Capital, Comet-Dashed-Star
In The Consonant-Cosmos - - Rows & Rows
and In Each 'O' In Orbits & Global-Rings
...  YOUR  Silver-Lined, Signature Shows ...

YOUR  Signature ...
Is Written In Autumn Leaves and Winds
and Cyclone Summer Seasons
and The Softest, Articulate, Evening Breeze
and Inscribed In A Snowflake's Misty-Breath
& Each Author-Rised, Airful - -  We Breathe ...

YOUR  Signature ...
Is Written With Moonbeam-Pens
... Upon A Book of Life, It Is Plume-Penned ...
& YOUR  Pencil - Draws Golden, Treasure Maps
Upon All of Earth & World of Men
As Signed Images of  YOUR  Autographs ...

YOUR  Signature ...
Sometimes As A Title of Position & Authority
... Powerfully Appears ...
And YOUR  Signature Bears YOUR Glory-Fame
of GOD, LORD, Almighty, King, Father and  Love
All As: Character & Crests of  JEHOVAH's  Name ...

YOUR  Signature ...
Is On The Edges of Eons and Eternity
... It Cannot Be Erased
... Will Never Fade -- Nor Ever Brushed Over
When It Is Written - - It Is Written ...
and Authenticated - - As Owner ...

YOUR  Signature ...
Carved The Majestic Grand Canyon Gorge
... It Cannot Be Matched Nor Forged
YOUR  Signature Covers Now & What The Future Expects
It Is:  Its Own Distinct Style and Collateral Dialect
YOUR  Signature Signs All Wealth & Royalty's Checks ...

YOUR  Signature ...
... On Covenants; Contracts - - In or Outside Our Margins
... Is Written, Stamped and Sealed ...
Waxed In Vowels, In Cursive-Cure-Ink, That Bled
Signed On Dotted Lines of Horizons & Our Hopes ...
YOUR  Signature - - Is What We've Read ...

( Part One of Two)

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

Copyright © MoonBee Canady | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |


    (For My Mother, Her Sisters And Mine Too)

The have toiled 
In blood and pain:


They have labored
In sun and rain;
Their tears 
Have watered
Sunken graves:


They are the ebony loins
From which we sprung:


They are the guardians of our faith;
Surviving for our sake.

Without them, Precious Lord,
Where would we be?

Jesus!  I thank God for the Mothers
Who have Fathered me!

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

My Apologies

My apologies
if i have ever stepped on your tiny toes
or acted just like one of your fury foes 
the blame is not thine
the shame is all mine

My apologies
if i have crushed your tender heart's crust
or betrayed your last but only one trust
the shame is all mine
the blame is not thine

My apologies
if i have been construed by you as rude
or acted in a manner unrefined and crude
the blame is not thine
the shame is all mine

My apologies
if indeed I have ever called you a dear friend
but never introduced you to Christ my beginning and end
the shame is all mine
the blame is not thine

Copyright © Chukwuemeka Mbah | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |


I have written fairy tales 
And of babies in a mothers womb. 
Even written about the tempter. 
And the Bibles coming doom. 

Wrote about a mountain top, 
Where I almost touched the sky. 
Wrote about how I lost my son, 
With many a teardrops in my eye. 

Even wrote about my dog. 
Used to sit here by my side. 
Wrote about love's I've lost. 
And a yellow rose that died. 

Then a lady in a cowboy hat, 
How she really turned my head. 
Really thought I loved her. 
Should have stayed at home instead. 

Wrote about ones eloquence. 
And the way she could excite. 
How her breast of alabaster 
Did keep me up all night. 

Wrote about a dress once worn. 
It was periwinkle blue. 
Just how sad I really was, 
When knowing we were through . 

Wrote about my Unicorn. 
Yes, his name was Dream. 
Took me over rainbows. 
We did make quite a team. 

Wrote how I slayed the dragons. 
Some say, I was the very best. 
Even when so deep inside, 
I laid them all to rest. 

Yes once I was a Knight, 
Shiny armor I did bear. 
Tempter got the best of me 
Now tarnished armor I do wear. 

Yes, all the words I write 
Come right here from my heart. 
I do so hope they touch you. 
That's the most important part. 

I really want to thank you all 
For reading what I write. 
Without your words of kindness 
There would be no Tarnished Knight  

Copyright © Donald Eissler | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

Far Side of Moonbeams

I adore you on the far side

of tranquil moonbeams &

admiration's transcendence,

'tween hard knocks & wonder

amidst breath's appreciation,

misfortunes' adversity naught to

e'er lessen breadth of affection,

dimensions beyond unfathomable

depths of reverent inclinations,

tenderness surpassing worldly feats

within endearments' heartprint,

there could be no greater love than

a grateful mother for her child

Copyright © Paloma P | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |



Beneath the cold gray skies---proudly
She stood.
Stripped bare, naked to the world,  
Arms outstretched to the heavens,
Unashamed, poised in her Avatar dignity,
She stood.

Through the peep holes of windows
Eyes reached out touching her beauty:
This ancient lady, an aged old tree, glorified
In the autumn of her life.

So I glorify my ebony hued mother---stripped
Bare of her God given rights to be;
Arms raised, poised in her dignity, unashamed,
She stood:
Proudly mastering each day
In the autumns of her life.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015