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Prose Poetry Water Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Water

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

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Details | Prose Poetry |


Being here is like being in the womb
Of the woman who carried you in this warm
Safe pool where all your worries were how to
Move your arm, how to not get entwined in that
                     Weird rope in the middle.

The water is cold, but not too, and if you close your eyes
You can imagine, you can JUST imagine what it feels like
To be so free again, and looked after and cared for
You can JUST hear voices quarrelling
And this very instant you realise this water is not
Your mother’s love just below her heart, her love
Is here all around you and she will worry if you float
                     On and on.

Most times this is how life is, trying to get a grip on it
But it evades like the little waves you can make with your hands
Little ripples in the surface that mean nothing
Like trying to get a grip on what people say around you
Words without meaning or at least it eludes you
As if swimming between fish with their own language
Forever trying to guess
                     And being rejected

Once you liked to swim,
Once you were a wee one
So with slow calculated strokes you move to safety
And sit shivering.
Not knowing how to live life and connect
Nor knowing how to stop life.
Once you loved to swim, hearing your mother
Sing to you from a distance. And that sound brings you
                     Back home again.


April 28, 2017
Copyright © Darren White

Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2017

Details | Prose Poetry |

Earth Fire Water Wind

                      A Journey With The Wind.

I had a dream that felt greater than reality, lost on earth
wearing a gown bare feet bleeding leaving behind traces 
for my sons to find me.

My hand was begging reaching out suddenly, a feeling 
I held the wind, yes the wind in the palm of my hand a friend, 
to join me through that journey toward the ocean, knowing it 
will soon fly away, who can hold the wind and make it belong, 
I did.

Wind Oh wind, meet my sons, whisper my name they are the 
ones who care, they will rescue me even blind folded, they will 
smell my bodies odor and sense where I am. 

Oh wind, you are the only one here on this earth I feel your presence, 
fly away now carry a tear place it on their cushion and deliver my 
message to them, I will wait even forever, bring them back to me.

My friend my wind, search for them, find them knock, on their window 
If they are sleeping they will wake up & run towards me follow my blood 
trail find their way to carry me softly & cure my scars wipe away my
tears & fear of drowning alone at the shore.

Suddenly the light faded darkness took over covering the brightness 
away I pledged, mother nature I am not yet ready, sun do not burn 
and light a fire, Oh sun where are you , don't leave me alone, I started humming my babies melody to be heard 
and come to my rescue.

Deprived to see them in the morn for years, deprived to look in their 
eyes, deprived to eat with them, drink with them, deprived to smell their 
perfume, destiny was against me due to the war in our country, for 
years they were always flying away around this earth, to settle.

I felt cold shivering, suddenly the warmth of my children's breath 
around gave me the strength I needed, Wind! my friend! you 
found them and carried them across the ocean,Oh, the look into 
each others eyes cannot be describe, for the first time I felt they 
were real we fixed for seconds but a whole book can be created 
through the emotions and communications that occurred during 
those precious moments, 
a language of its own.

The echoing of their voices was heard, what can we say mum except 
we love you for being there when we needed you,we love you because 
of who you are, we love you because you care, we love you for not sinking 
during our absence because we needed you on the shore, together listen
to nature`s beauty, birds twittering, fish whispering, 
waves dancing & splashing.

We love you because you find life in everything you touch, and if not, 
you blow life into everything, we love you, your breath has kept 
us alive, your breath is as strong as the wind that carried us to you. 
Come on mum, it was a long journey with the wind on this earth 
for all of us, lets go home, together. 

 Contest,Earth Fire Water Wind for Debbie Guzzi   (WIN Honorable Mention) Therese Bacha

Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Sweet River Man

Let's wait for the sunset one summer's day
down by the river where I always liked to play
we can kick off our shoes and bury our feet in the sand
come on please be my sweet river man
We can call the wild geese up with a little dab of feed
or jump in the water a little too deep
in that old Red River we can laugh and sing
take me by the hand, make that leap

Write our names in a heart in the sand
you can be my sweet river man
and I'll be your sweet lady river friend
we can hold on for life and scare the catfish twice
anything’s possible that time of day
my white sundress is a little bit dirty
from that red water that always stays so murky

I wouldn't want to be any other place
than down by the river where I always liked to play
and when the moon comes out tonight
and the stars shine bright
your sweet river lady
is going to sing to her sweet river man under the moonlight

watch those stars shooting in the dark as you hold me tight
until we see the sun start to rise
yeah down on the river where I always liked to play
nothing’s changed much since I was just a babe
but now I share with my sweet river man, my favorite place to play

Copyright © Danielle Wise Baxter | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |




		        And it shall come to past, when  I shall bring
                                    a cloud over the earth, that the bow shall be
		       seen in the cloud…and the waters shall no 
                                   more become a flood to destroy…

Memories are like tombstones:
Silent epitaphs of life.

We prepared well for the fire next time;
But the thunder came: wailing clouds
Released their sobbing tears

The crescendo passage of the river’s womb
Overflowed her loins; wetness
Saturating the helpless earth.

Stunned by the surge of the water’s fury,
We sandbagged hope; anchored by our faith,
we levied our destinies on the upper banks of time.

What sins had we forgotten to pray forgiveness for? 
How long had we cursed the drought?  Who Could stop the tears of God?

Cringing beneath the cloud, whining… 
We wiped away our tears; waiting on the crest.
In the tears of God; we waited on the dove: soaring

Skies; sailing in the mist of the bow’s rays;
Refracted by the savory tears of God.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

One Slick Chick

There is an old saying....
keep your friends near, but keep your enemies even closer...

This is a poem about a very smart Chick...
Who was very resourceful and very slick...
Rumor had it there was a Wolf, and he had a way...
Of taking advantage of everyone on any given day...
He had terrorized the neighborhood for the very last time...
They had a town meeting , and all agreed...
That the only choice was a dastardly deed... 
Chick volunteered to take on the challenge...
And majority stated, he had to explunge...
“I’d love to have you over for dinner on Friday “ said Chick...
To which Wolf stated quite arrogantly, but quick...
It would be my pleasure...see you at eight...
There was a beautiful shining Harvest Moon, when Wolf arrived at the gate...
Come sit in my hot tub, said Chick turning on some tunes...
Dinner should be ready very soon...
The water is hot , said the Wolf...
Ahh , but your body will feel so much better...
Just relax and drink this wine, dinner will have much more flavor... 
Hours went by...then the doorbell rang...
It was the Pigs,  from town known as the “ gang “...
Quick grab a chair and please be aware ...
That I have slaved all day for this affair...
One which will change your perception of me...
I might be a Chick, but as you will see...
I have accepted the challenge, and done my best...
So do me a favor and please honor my request ... 
Use your best table manners, and please do not squeal...
And for everyone’s sake, try not to “ Wolf “ down this  meal...

Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |


A gray dawn, a dark twilight.
 Daybreak, dawn, dusk.
A flash of lightening across the horizon.
 Windswept trees, in all bent shape, 
Such is the result due to harsh winds 
 That travel for miles and miles.
And we have no knowledge from where it came from
 Or where it is going.
But that its travel continues across the daunting mass
 Called; Ocean.
Oh how it churns the water.
 I can feel the mist and spray cover my body
And tingle my hands.
 Standing in the shallow the air blows about me
With sandy hair raging like fire, slapping my face.
 A feeling of unknown,
Watching angry waves become violent.
 And a shiver of coldness, trembles my body.
A sense of peace,
 I have one thought;
Where did it come from?                                       

Copyright © Elizabeth Brown | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |


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

Copyright © Jesson Rata | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

One Drop - Prose

These forgotten badlands are arid and parched. It’s felt the blistering, desert hot winds.
Turbulent gritty sand storms have crossed these lands. What was once lively, thriving is 
now only a desolate, thirsty terrain. After being drought-ridden for so long, the ground is 
hard, unyielding even to the smallest root.  Even vultures have stopped flying overhead 
for how can something die if everything is already dead?Day after desiccated day, the sun 
beams down, relentless. Although the night is somewhat welcoming, it is still so thick and 
humid that it doesn’t provide much comfort. But there’s a scent in the air….something 
somewhat familiar but from ages ago. There’s a change in the atmosphere…and an eerie 
silence that stretches for miles, like time has stood still. Splat! There…a scattered, dark 
circle on the ground…disappearing almost instantly. Suddenly, the scorching sky breaks 
open. Rain…cool, wet liquid…it does exist. Looking across the horizon, you can see it. Like 
a silky veil draping over the lands in a steady, fluid motion. There is no other sound 
around…just the sound of this drumming rain landing, making everything it touches glisten 
and gleam like diamonds. Giving drink to a once thought unquenchable territory, it opens 
up wide and soaks it all in. The water running, dripping into the trenches that were only 
once small cracks…..reaching depths unknown to bring forth life of what was once dead. If 
there were such a smell as years of dehydration and depravity finally receiving 
sustenance, this smell would be it. Such a beauty to behold…so much water that it stands
in pools until this hardened ground can learn what it’s like to soften in order to accept it. 
It’s everywhere, can you see it? Abundant, unwavering water. Everything has been so 
barren, you can see for miles…but…wait..what’s this? Something so small that you would 
almost miss it. Emerald green, a majestic inch…a sprout….a sprout of hope….a sprout of 

Copyright © A Rambling Righting Riley - Shauna Riley | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |

Summer and the River

	the Guadalupe River, 
	at least a couple of decades ago...
	A bend in any river,
	no matter how slowly that river flows, 
	erodes the outside of that bend, 
	digs away at the bank, 
	separating stones from sand, 
	nudging them into shallow water 
	across and down the river, 
	sorting them by size as it goes, 
	the smaller, rounder ones 
	in a layer on top. 
	That’s where I was that summer afternoon, 
	on my back, half-submerged in the gravel shallows, 
	the water so warm I couldn’t feel it, 
	my arms straight out from my body,
	interrupting the flow, 
	causing almost waves
	as the water washed over. 
	My ears were under water; 
	I could hear only the flow of water around me. 
	Above me the leaves and branches 
	of trees overhanging the river 
	moved gracefully in the hot breeze. 
	Somehow the leaves and branches and water 
	moved at the same tempo, 
	not like music, 
	but rather a deep humhmmm 
	I could both see and feel. 

	I don’t know how long 
	I hovered in that flow, 
	but it wasn’t long enough. 
	In ways I can’t describe 
	I’m still there, 
	bathed in that most elemental of mediums, 
	moving with the leaves, 
	lost in a very long moment.

Copyright © Jack Jordan | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

At The Well

Lingering at the well of living water, 
Jesus always meets them there.
He welcomes all with open arms and 
carries all their care.
Looking at a reflection in that well, 
"The Lord God," the crowds plainly see. 
His blood, the cross,  nail scarred hands, 
that has set His people free. 

The living water removes all stains. 
It cleanses  "whosoever" will.
and offers  His great comfort, 
of "Peace, be still."
Lingering at the well of living water,
It's nourishment refreshes the soul. 
Through all seasons it never runs dry, 
His Love has made them whole......

Copyright © Edith D Eutsler | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Like Fish in Water

Like fish
for whom water might have the transparent invisibility 
of ubiquitous healthy atmosphere,
our primal natural-spiritual nondual first love
and last hope
is for ever-more regenerative health trends,
and not degenerative pathology trends.

That being so,
if indeed I have this Left-Right balanced accurately,
conserve-progress polypathically,
economically and politically,
then health optimization for both LeftBrain ego conservatism
and RightBrain ecoconscious nondual freedom of integrity,
can never settle for WinLose choices,
instead, using these emerging competing choices
toward discerning WinWin multicultural regenerativity.

This could be true within a humane-divining individual,
within secular-sacred families and households,
within natural dynamic-enspirited, 
cooperatively-owned and managed economies,
and between politically incorporated governments,
as it is true within any regeneratively trending healthy ecosystem,
whether explicitly,
or merely implicitly,
bi-lateral balancing our nondualist co-arising journey
toward WinWin healthy ego/eco-consciousness,
like fish in ecotherapeutic waters.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2017

Details | Prose Poetry |

water is life

People ignore me because of my simple nature
If you ask me, I would not hesitate to say;
When the creator takes, I take, however, every other thing comes after me.
As a liquid, so colorless I am, I don’t deny the fact anyway
But, tell you solemnly I am valuable more than any conceivable liquid that men embrace.
Plant feel prideful enough, men thought they are the greatest
Birds of the air with their glittering nature, this is because;
I get enormous kiss from them every time!
When I become angry for anything, 
I will put shame, disgrace to it
It cease from its normal functioning.
If men boast that they can do without me, notwithstanding the status
Can they withstand my wrath when I cease for three weeks?
Oh no! Even if they can, they will stink, struck them with disease-
Disfigure their physic and they will kiss the mother Earth!
Why should the birds be arrogant?
Is it for; their unique feathers, attractive beaks, and their consequential legs?
Do they not feed in fruits of trees?
Which I nurture tenaciously from incarnation
If I should give them my back side, they will simply add nothing but
 Manure to the mother Earth.
What of the beautiful flamboyant flowers
That produces sweet nectar for insect to live?
What of The plant of the earth that every animal derives its life?
Am I not the one that makes them paramount?
If they decide not to be in speaking terms with me
Oh no! I will make them as thin as an AIDS patient
I will disfigure their out look to resemble such suffering from-
Sickle-cell anemia or perhaps, kwashiorkor
But, am so glad that, inter-alia, they concede that
I should as well be attributed as life!  

Copyright © Nnachetam Stanislaus | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Marriage of Oil and Water

Cups thrust high, A diving umbrella licks at many fingers, 
rose water licks - and seeks our elbows for a plunge and gathering below. 
Now echoes the trumpet prelude, a brilliant flash of praise, 
almost a ritual proclamation. 

It matters none friend whether you're pro or con.
-When has it ever?
Let us climb the high sun groping forest, 
and consume together with glee split faces, 
the sloppy viscous sex of misanthropy and philanthropy.

Copyright © William Green | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |


Encumbered with the walker
blankets for the wet bench,
sheets of water splashing the cement.
I ventured to my smoking spot
face hidden inside my hooded coat.

I light my fire stick,

letting drops of water 
reverberate on my hood.

My angel came walking by
called my name;

gave me her umbrella and kept on walking.

Copyright © Gisele Vincent-Page | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |


When you first said you were in love, we were standing at the edge of the sea, just you and me and the sand beneath our feet, staring out over the water to where the sun and sea meet. 
You said you were in love with a girl who had shipwrecks in her smile, and eyes like a storm. The kind of eyes that every once in a while, would clear into the bluest of skies, and you could fly away right into them. 
I couldn't bring myself to look up at you, so I just looked at the water that kisses my toes, because god only knows that a boy like you could never be talking about a girl like me. But then you said my name, and I swear no one will ever be able to say it the same way you did, and I couldn't stop myself from looking at you and smiling just a bit. And you just had to say the worlds that stopped my heart for the second time that day, "there it is, that shipwreck of a smile..." And in that moment in time, everything was just fine. 
But baby, if only you knew what a shipwreck the rest of me was. 
Because I loved you like the ocean loves the shore, a love that makes you constantly come back for more. And you loved me the way the morning sun loves the dew on a leaf, in the brief moment it's there, the sun makes the dew shine and sparkle like something brand new, but all to quickly, it dries up and is gone.
And now I realize that I could never make you stay. 
Because when I showed you more than my shipwreck smile, and you saw shipwreck that was my soul that had sunk to the bottom of the ocean, you knew I was far to broken... And you left me here, with sand in my bed and a hurricane in my head. 
Because I loved you with every drop of water in the sea, but you never took the time to learn how to swim... Instead you crawled out of the surf and walked down the beach, just out of my reach, until I was left alone with my shipwrecks and sand castle home.
So my blue eyes have turned back to gray, and I'm back at the edge of the sea. But this time there is no you, all there is, is me. And now its bittersweet, that I can feel the same sand under my feet as I dive into the waves and swim away to the place where the sun and sea meet. Maybe I'll find you there, at the place where the sun and sea meet.

Copyright © Allie Rosenthal | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Gator Bait Series 1st Cold Snapped

The wind was blowing when she left the city...

I believe it was twenty below...

Where she was going she already knew...

But... first she had things she had to do...

Get rid of the body that was clear....

There were no options, it had to disappear....

The heater was broken and blowing cold air...

She could feel the ice, building up in her hair..

She had cleaned up the blood as best she could...

As she had hit him hard with that log of wood...

All she had asked him, was to light a fire...

To take off the chill in the house....

Do it yourself if you are cold...he snapped

And while you’re at it get me a cold beer...from the fridge..

It was early morning when she finally arrived at the bridge..

This was his favourite fishing spot...

She pushed his body off the pier...along with his ice cold beer..

And suddenly began to shiver and sneeze.....

Oh well, she said...this too shall pass..

When I get to the Florida Keys..

PS..this is the first in a series..watch for part 2.."gator bait..the dream "

Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

His eyes are clear as water

his eyes are clear as water
they would seem to me like shallow pools
but I have glimpsed their depths
I have traveled on their currents
and I am as one lost at sea
in his cold, clear eyes

Copyright © Brandi Elizabeth Brown | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |


Soltive pre ordained priest warlike additives initially a Jesus Freak becoming cold 
hearted in the winter. Bane has come with hatred of simple minded people. Sexual 
orientation is nill. Macabration indentation on the quilt. A welcome matt with a towel 
for spills. I have a small fortune tied. Up is not an option now. There is only snow up 
there eventually. The water line is nearer the river then the streaming stream of 
water near me on the highway catching all the melting riverlets as they run away 
from home in WinterBane. Some men still have strength but they abuse it think to 
break down boarded ruins tearing down old barns and cornors of old abandoned 
houses where homeless and poor people might find shelter from the rain. Where will 
they find to dwell. Because of wealth they have a large area to heat in WinterBane 
they have a larger of a structure the more expensive in the WinterBane with sleet 
coming down in Sheets of Ice looked like a solid wall of water hitting me Frost icing 
clothing no thing was DRY ice all over me a few moments after I stepped toe out of 
sheltor walking on the SIDE of the road cant walk on the roadway slipping on the ICE 
stepped offroad walking in the treelined. I found what looked like a Najavo Hogan 
brogaded outside there was clothes hannging on branches a Babylon Garden in the 
snow. While the whole city was whited out at degrees zero. The goose has a liver. 
Oh Pâté the liver rules the Goose is cooked with too many alcholic incumbents while 
the minutes of the meeting Read all old activity reported long ago nothing is new 
under the sun. Nothing there is nothing is there nothing in my past has preparred me 
for my future education has failed me for the alcholic eye was ruined for functioning 
in SOciety degenerate reborne. Nothing smelles worse to a man then sex mixed up 
with tobacco and alchohol how can anyone live as porn objects and still survive the 
toll booth smells like whiskey before three pee em it takes the heart to control it 
takes the lust to want. I feared to die for I was sinnor I feared one day to lay 
underneathe the snow ensheathed but then one day has come to eye EYE Fear No 
Snow EYE Fear No Snow I am a man. The snow no longer bothers me. I am beneath 
it all, My soul is not inside of me. It leaves me when I fall. As I lay here 
silently,wating for the trumpet, It will blow! 
I do not any longer fear the snow. 
Copyright © 2006 charles hice

Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2009

Details | Prose Poetry |

Rivers And Reservoirs

By Curtis Johnson

I like to behold the budding of bushes and branches as they prepare to bring to us their beautiful roses, shady limbs, and leaves.
I like to hear the sounds of creeks, dams, ditches, lakes, ponds, and watersheds shouting in early Spring, as they welcome the inflow of waters rushing from the mountains and hills, after a long winter’s snow fall.

I like the Summer’s offerings of water slides, watermelons, and other cool foods.                                                                            
I like swimming pools, cold drinks, back yard barbecues, and soothing night breezes after a hot summer day.

I like the beauty of the Fall Season beckoning and bidding me to shift into the lower gears of life, calming me after a long hot summer, causing me to enjoy the golden colors of trees, and teaching me the value of constant change.
                                                                                                                 I like Old Man Winter which slows me down, shows me how hard, cold, and solid is the ground on which I stand. Sometimes, Old Man Winter stops me dead in my tracks, reminding me that it’s okay, and I need not fear if  I freeze, because come spring time, I will rise again.   Yes, he lets me know that I will thaw,  and flow like melting snow, filling rivers and reservoirs.

cj080108 (Contest)

Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Rutland Water

The water, sandy shore, lush hills, swaying trees, the smart lakeside houses and 

boated fishermen in the breeze from the Spit of the largest reservoir in England's 

smallest county completed our beautiful Spring day in the Midlands. 

Copyright © Peter Dorr | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Titanic The Unsinkable Ship

What people believed in 1912.
Was a myth in the truth, placed on a shelf.
Was the unthinkable, unsinkable..
The fourty six thousand gross tons of steal.
Would never kneel or break its bow.
The ship could never sink or rust.
Was rumor going round, we all could trust.
The crowd showd up to celebrate.
As the ship was Christened to show its fate.
But The White Star Line was cruising fine.
When it hit a berg, under a darkened sky.
There it lie, with many to cry.
At the bottom of the sea she'll die.
They said the Titanic could never sink.
Their opinion a myth, now she's on the brink.
With fourty six thousand gross tons of steal.
The voyagers finished their final meal.
To the bottom of the ocean they went.
A many to cry, while she made her descent.
The Titanic was a ship in trouble.
But now a myth, and a pile of rubble.
At the bottom's where she made her grave.
A sigh of relief, for the lives they saved.
To the rescue, and on the double.
Titanic was a ship in trouble..
Her maiden voyage, now turn the page.
Thousand of people, in a fit of rage.
The news it read that we all should mourn.
The Titanic's passengers, their lives were torn.
A myth of truth placed in the news.
The unsinkable ship..Would never lose.

Titanic-Poetry by Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 2009,2014..
ALL rights reserved.. 

Copyright © Kim Robin Edwards | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

Sunflower Showers

Raindrops falling on my head and all over me;
Or is it shower drops falling and cleansing me?
O, not to worry, because sunflowers befriend me;
And I am protected from soap getting into my eyes.
I’m neither glad nor sad, but I’m clean and wet all over.
04142016 PS Contest, Photograph #1-under 10 lines,
By Poet Destroyer A

Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

On Vacation With Middle Passage Memories

   On Vacation With Middle Passage Memories

Out over the alluring expanse 
of the Big Water---
where the sky rest upon
the water’s edge---
where undulating ships wait
to fall off the earth---
we saw the lightening
dancing in space
and heard the applause
of the thunder.

Huge nimbus clouds,
dark like the early night,
and filled beyond capacity---
burst opened like over filled water
balloons---releasing great falls of rain
wrestling with ferocious winds;
for control of fleeing waves
rushing to shore---frothing
the sands with quenching gratitude.

Mesmerized and immobilized
by nature’s fury,
the blood flow of memory
released a storm of memories---
detailing vivid descriptions
of Middle Passage crossings.

The only things missing
from this reality of the present scene,
were the times---places---stenches
of the living and dead---echoes
of the moans, groans and rattling chains
from the bowels of the putrid ships
that saved many unfortunate poor souls
from the Big Water’s fury---ironically
landing them safely on the waiting shores
to begin life anew:
shuttled to and from the auction block.

The howling winds, roaring waves,
and whipping rains---all slowly subsided:
we hailed the shuttle bus back to the hotel.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |


I love to water my yard.....and my feet.
My plants love to drink....
The cool water I give them.
Just like I love to water
You with my words.
Passion, lust and misty
Thoughts of love.

Copyright © Randall Smith | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Day in the Country

Lost in a beautiful garden that stretched far into the perfect turquoise horizon,
Amazed at the smells, the beauty with the breeze singing through blossomy trees
The cherry blossom danced in a light wind lifted it off boughs swirling in the air,
Sun shining through budding branches, shadows of mighty oak trees black on green

A haunting tune from the star in the meadows a nightingale sang to his loved one,
His song filled the air over water mead's nearby, and floated through great woods,
A trickling stream flowed with golden water running and leaping to a noble river,
Last years fallen crisp brown red leaves floated off on a journey to a noble river.

Listening to a nightingales opera warming the hardest heart it floats in the wind,
Then when it does not seem possible to hear a better sound the bird changes pitch,
While it sings sweetly the rest of the grasslands are silent, proud and respectful,
As no other voice can match the wonderful tune that rings through heaths and dales.

In the distance there were some landmarks that were familiar so now I was not lost,
I spotted a butcher-bird, cockchafer in the warm woods as I stood on spongy turf,
Saxifrage in the meadow as I walked out from the wood into brilliant May sunshine,
Far in the distance a horn sounded to tell workers their work was done and go home.

Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Life is like a Waterfall

My life is as the waterfall 
No matter the effort I put forth
I continue to fall into the canyon

With strength of hope and prayers 
I climb against forces with  my head raise to the heavens
As water gushes over the mountain top

Determined not to give out or accept failure
I dug my toes deep into crevices on the mountainside 
Grasping for breathe as I'm hit in the face by the cold water

My mouth is open taking advantage of fresh air
My eyes are blurred by water and mist as in summertime
And crusted over by frost as in fall season

Chilly springtime spawning tornadoes and windstorms
Ice sickles hanging from trees and power lines
I die a little inside again as life is being renewed all around me

Life will go on and I will be forgotten like the ancient dead
Having failed both my classes, losing joy for my studies
What will I do now, I can't go to school for the first since two thousand four

I'm sure I'll be suspended for a year, trying to study breaking free of my cocoon 
With just a year left to graduate pending my Associates Degree 
I'll have to wait it out all alone this spring and summer semesters, humiliated 

I have the heavy of the world on my face since I'm told I look like hubby's mother
After carrying a smile on my face like the sunshine, everyday 
Just to hide the night having no stars or moon in my heart, I rain tears of blood inside

Copyright © Barbara Washington | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Second Fable

 The Second Fable 
The Second Fable 
The BusYness 
The Alcoholic boss: 
       The man was doing inventory when the lady called his namme. 
“Johnny what is wrong with you eye just looked out at the van? 
The tire is almost flat again eye just gave you a hundred dollars yesterday to get 
the tire fixed and eye remember giving you fifty just last week? You must have 
kept the money are you drinking now again?” 
The Alcoholic Worker: 
“Tilly you are mistaken the tire is not that low eye checked the gauge myself less 
than two hours ago. 
The receipt for the tireshop is still inside the till Tilly why do not you still believe 
me tell me Tilly how could eye get a receipt like that unless eye paid the bill?” 
The Alcoholic Worker: 
To Tilly:“Every now and then they do a poor poor job so eye will take the van back 
to the tire shop and have them check that tire again.” 

To ASIDE: The whiskey that eye bought with that old coots money is still in the 
center console eye have to drink it now today and she will knoe I'm drunk unless 
eye leave the van somewhere and say that it got stolen and the bad men beat me 
Narrator Charlax Android One Seven: 
The Johnny worker got in the van and drove to the center of a bridge he leaped 
from the bridge into the water down below with the whiskey in his hand and left 
the van in the center of the bridge the tire was now so low it was just flat. 
The Alcoholic Worker: 
Johnny to hisself: “The Tilly will believe me why should she doubt so much eye 
have to make this look good a lie is soon found out.” 
Narrator Charlax One Seven: 
Johnny took a rock of largesse size and hit himself more than three times hard 
upon his brow his forehead split wide open he looked like a beaten up man. 
He finished off the whiskey and walked somewhat surprised that his worthwhile 
plan had come to a fruition in his addled whiskey mind back to the sewing 
 Listen as the woman talks to him. 

                        The Alcoholic Boss: 
“Before you say a word to me my alcoholic Johnny there was a Charlax sitting 
underneath the bridge playing games down in the water he loves a mermaid 
there and kisses all her hair. He saw you leave the van and leap into the water 
my friend MISS Tilly Two is bringing back the van for you.” 
“Now don't you feel so foolish the job was feeding you now you will look for 
someone else to tell your lies to rob them of there wealth to feed your alcoholic 

Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2008

Details | Prose Poetry |

Icicles and Hard Frost

One dark and very cold night I decided to stretch my legs and go for a walk,
Stars were so very clear, if I stood on a ladder I, could touch the Dog Star,
Jack Frost is busy frost on frost sparkled and twinkled in silver moonlight,
The river and local brooks stood in silence only waterfalls trickled slowly.

A frozen mist floated down and rested over the top of any frozen water way,
Becoming denser, pressing nearer the icy surfaces I could smell sharp cold,
Standing on the bank in a frozen setting was a big old oak's moonlit shadow,
The tips of my ears tingled and my breath was rime, it was so very beautiful.

Layers of water slowly flowed over the ice, that water turned to ice in minutes,
Plates of ice covered with a frost clogging the runs and eddies everything still,
Icicles hung down from branches and the arches of a small bridge solid and strong,
In the morning ice would be levered up and broken, left to sail into the distance

Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |


Kerplunk sound of stone dropping down into water Kersplash is man falling overboard a 
boat. Whoosh is the wind or someone moving or something moving fast leaving wind behind. 
Plop is messy. POP may be too many noises to describe them all. Bang a pistol shot. Boom 
thunder or explosives. Crack the lightening bolts or wood breaking SNAP the fingers snap 
the buttons closed snap them suspenders once SLAP is too composed. Creak the door open 
slowly it comes then stops Creak the door shut on my nerves oh the thrill and excitement in 
the Creak that comes. Whap is seldom penned they use wham or whack instead of whap the 
hapless foe whap him with the silly stick then let my people go fish; there is a blurble gurgle 
noise for fish out of water dry fish seldom heard or used the need not there in movies seen. 
Calls whistles barks too many on the listing port to add them whistles hear them barks just 
way too many calls from port of call to answer all the calls. Crunch is seldom heard but 
candy bars or fresh apples turned on the stem to view. Whale thar she blows kind of splishy 
constant throes just like running water hot or cold in a falls away zone the waterfalls away. 
Definitive sound.

Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2009

Details | Prose Poetry |

Portrait of a Water Lady and I

There she is, rainbow hued, hazy viewed clues.
The whistle chimed waves clear her unspoken throat.
Pardon Lady's wispy tension, a molder of falling sand. 
A maker of details form the reality of dreamlife.
It is not man-made, it's spirit. 
From one withheld, on a roof full of heating. 
It's the heart vision, it's her only heart vision, 
The only seer of the whole. 
The sea dragon's bucket of snails
make it through the tunnel portal,
and we all gather through.
There Lady then goes, 
off to the Wizard's shell. He's cloaked in 
red and white, the colors of woman and man.
They're both pleading, seething,
 kneeling beside the shelled faces.
 Sparks, that near cover her wreathed, flowered, dress of sea flowers.
As iridescent pyramid easter eggs rain down.
Armored in bright lace, the rhythms of twirls and braids shall 
claim pertinence to the deep blue whale's song, the whale clothed
in water, salt, and Lady's most hidden dreams.
A Wizard Whale's Lady, protected with beauty.
Zero point with no ego, no confession to claim.
The breathed memory between her salty fingers
lights a candle to rebirth her soul. 
Hello my little fellow,
long lost pearly weeping willow,
I've come to find my ocean.  
My voice adorned with sight.
I flew to and from her, a maker of undone.
She was veiled in white memory, 
a blanket of weight brushed off her.
A flaming moment floating in her watery hoping heart. 
Sunk under sun drenched waters,
 gazed shackles flew away.
Exceeding through three door frames,
not separate from the grey portrait of a sculpture.
Tightly knit and finely tuned,
 with heavy chisels of confirmation. 
I will spit if I have to, and then I will cry after.
For I will only listen to my bloody heart.
The emotions are blatant, the tuned in 
question that purge's forth, 
is more meaningful with an identity gone.
But we are never lost,
we are dreaming in the ocean's Wingdom,
the Angel's castle cloud held tight.
Alyssa Couture

Copyright © Alyssa couture | Year Posted 2011