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Prose Poetry Woman Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Woman

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

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Details | Prose Poetry |

A Jealous Woman In Love


                                   ~ A Jealous Woman In Love~

             Since I barely slept I felt ill as tears blinded my vision 
                     heart broken burning with desire to see him 
        to hold him to kiss him love him more and show him that strong will 
                     through my eyes to make him understand 
            I am a woman and should not be judged because I am jealous
                  I am a woman deeply in love how can I not be jealous 
          I am jealous of his sheets caressing his body when we share our bed 
         I am jealous of his hair being part of him all day when I am not with him 
                  even his eyes when he sees the moon instead of me 
      I am jealous of his phone feeling his breath or using a knife and fork to eat                    
              as I only wish at the time to feed him and caress his lips
            Oh! I love him so much that I became jealous of his shadow 
         so jealous I drowned in my thoughts like a fish thrown on the shore 
          by the raging waves trying to breath to survive without the oceans 
                                               salty water.

For the contest of Andrea Dietrich
a poem For The Honor Of My FAVE Poetry.
Therese Bacha  ( Win No.1)

Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Those women

Boys boys boys boys

She has red hair
She was blonde last month
She maybe another next month, next week, or tomorrow 
She loves them boys
She always goes for the married ones, mostly
She likes them small, short
Well maybe not small but short
      You feel me
She also likes them exotic

I've had the honor to meet 'em all

Let's start with C, yea this one is a difficult case for me
We never get along, I can't stand him
He thinks he's all that
Maybe it's his bling bling, his taste of shine and diamond, the rims in his cars that gets her

Lets move to M, okay this is a cute one
Very handsome, mouthwatering and even down to earth! 
It's this one that brings her from her station all the way to his so she can just sit next to him
And flirt, and smile, and play with her hair as she hungrily eyes him
A woman on heat

Let's move to R, I love him
He is so quiet and manly and with his style, he only demands respect
So smart
He says very little, he is one to hunt for
The curiosity is her trap on this one

Let's move to another R
This one has a baby face, even when he talks
So cute!
But he's got two babies you know, so don't let that baby face fool you
Maybe it's his 'naivety' that roars the tiger in her

And then E, hahaha, lol
This one brings out the naughty in me
He makes me say things I shouldn't say
But what the heck? Am old now, I can say whatever
He is always hot, literally! 
Keeping them jokes sweaty is what she does with him

And then T, the least of the group coz he ain't married!
This one has PLAYER written all over him
From his sweet talk, to his touches, to his sexy smile
He has learnt his game well
This one doesn't entertain her as much

I watch her as she does her thing
We watch her, and shake our heads
I find her entertaining 
Men, I don't remember having that much energy when I was twenty
One of this days, a wife of one these catches will show up when she is all over her man and someone will get a beating 
One of these days, she will be married but she will also be haunted by the thoughts of some young chick all over her man, like she does

Copyright © njeri hunjeri | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |


Wrinkle, wrinkle on my face…

Couldn't you have found some other place ?

What made you furrow between my eyes ?

And all those creams, they are nothing but lies….

When I look in the mirror, all I can see…

Is a silver haired person staring back at me….

Then there are the lines , which run down the sides of my nose…

Running in circles, round my lips, down my neck and into my clothes….

Speaking of clothes , isn’t that where the wrinkles should be ?

Is nature playing a trick on me ?

Or is this a sign “ old “ is sneaking up on me ?

It seems only yesterday I was a young girl .. and had my whole life ahead of me…

So simple..so free……

Which don’t take me wrong I have enjoyed my life’s ride…

And there isn’t much in my life, I haven’t tried….

But it should would be nice if I could just see…

Myself with one less wrinkle…when I looked back at me…..

Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |


Splendid ,
as silver moon
is the woman of mine.
Life illuminates
tender and lively,
engaging ray
swift and keen
flowing and silken.
light and vivid colors,
invisible aura
which takes me
as music

come argento di luna
è la mia donna.
La vita illumina
Tenera e vivace,
raggio avvolgente
rapido e penetrante
fluido e suadente.
Luce e colore vividi,
aura invisibile
che mi prende
come musica

Copyright © Mario DE PAZ | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |


The strength of a woman
Is not in her tongue
Or the length of her hair
Or the songs she has sung

Control is not found
In the clothing she wears
Or seduction she offers
Or the child that she bears

Her honor and glory
Comes not from what shows
Except her reliance
On God that she knows

For God gives her power
Beyond height and length
And makes her much stronger
To display her strength

It’s there deep within her
And flows through her being
Revealing a boldness
And strength we are seeing

For man cannot crush
All the things she can do
For she is a woman
And warrior too

Copyright © gregory boyer | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |


Virtuous Woman
5 Feet 5
Witnessing the untold wisdom in your eyes
Protector by nature
Shielding your offspring with 
Flawless skin glowing as the Indian sun
Bearing the scars
Burdens of
Emerging as a phoenix
Transforming into your
Victorious state
A new day given by 
Walk no Run
In the anointing
My virtuous

Copyright © Tanya Jenkins | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry |


Strong woman
That woman 
Who tears behind the mirror? 
Made me who I am 
My hardened heart she took
Tenderized it with love
Took my salty tears 
Turned into joyful tears

That woman 
Who sighs behind the mirror 
Sighs in memory
Memories and feelings
Hardships she went through 
To feed my whole stomach

That woman
The woman pulling back her mucors
Does so in fear
Fear that ill not be what she hoped
That teared woman 
Crys in fast and prayer 
Crys for my dark self 
Cries for my future 

That woman crying 
Tears down her body fluids
Hopefully that her anger and disappointments
May atleast flow out with them
Her body almost running dry by now
That woman calls upon God
GOD atleast make him better
That woman cries for me 
That woman cries for her lineage
That woman cries night and day

How I came to be 
To be what I am 
I don’t know how
A slave of the world
A slave with one work song 
A song entitled failure 
The first stanza of calamity
The last stanza dead man where I am heading

Looking at her cry 
Twists my brains 
Is this what I am?
Is this my purpose to the world? 
Is this the man the world wants? 
Is this what God spent time Molding 
Is this what the bible describes? 
Just for her 
Just for her I take my life back 
Just for her God I stand strong 
Just for her I say no
NO no no this is not me 

Come mummy take this handkerchief 
I don’t wannna see those tears again
I love you mummy

Copyright © FRANCIS NZIOKI | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

Helen Keller

 Helen Keller 
Helen Keller 

 This is what eye remember about the MOVIE of course eye never knoe her. She 
was moving constantly moving at least the actress who was portraying her but to 
a boy it WAS her it seemed so heart wrenching a thing to just be blind there is a 
SCHOOL for THEM they do not function in the real world and there she was big 
as life the boy in my had that CRUSH upon her from the instant eye saw her it 
was strang puppy love. Winner of the 1960 Tony Award for Best Play, “The Miracle 
Worker” tells the incredible story of Helen Keller, a young woman trapped in a 
world of silence and darkness. Deaf, blind, and mute, with no way to 
communicate, she fought anyone who tried to help her with an intense, furious 
desperation. Then Annie Sullivan came. A strong, determined, half-blind woman 
fueled by her troubled past, she began the daunting struggle to reach Helen and 
bring her into the world at last. She was so pretty in an odd sort of way swaying to 
the tune of musick only she could see and hear the idea that she tried to 
overcome her handicap and live was so nice to this little undergod. YThis semi-
sequel to William Gibson's The Miracle Worker recounts the early adult years of 
the profoundly handicapped but brilliant Helen Keller. Helen, played by Mare 
Winningham, enters college, with her friend and mentor Annie Sullivan Macy 
(Blythe Danner) by her side. As Helen's international fame grows, she must 
withstand the pressures of those who'd treat her as a freak rather than a human 
being as well as Annie's near-strident demands that she excel at everything. The 
multi-faceted Ms. Keller lived too much of a life to be squeezed into a mere two-
hour running time; the script betrays the strain of trying to show us more than it's 
able by wrapping up everything in a hurried, unsatisfying conclusion. see part two 

Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2008

Details | Prose Poetry |

God And Woman

God And Woman

I did not want anything from The Almighty
Sacrificed untouchable realization
Which is symbol of myself
And dedicated emotions, silence.

I did not demand anything from the woman
Allowed her into the corner of my mind
Which is the center of bleeding
And presented my intuition.

The Almighty and the woman repeatedly call
Destruction in my lonely life
It's the ability to do more by them...


Copyright © Sandip Goswami | Year Posted 2014

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 |

Gone and hopefully permanently forgotten

By Stanley Collymore

Never speak ill of the dead we’re constantly and solemnly
exhorted regardless of who they are or the life that
they freely chose to live, as they’re no longer
around, is the lame and unconvincing excuse
that’s often and dishonestly given in explanation, to rebut or
defend their name, any accusations or adverse criticisms,
however concrete or valid they might be, being made
against them; and in those circumstances therefore
to then embark on such a plan would in itself be
quite unbecoming while serving as nothing
more than a cheap and cowardly way of
attempting to exact one’s own revenge.

But hang on a moment, how truly valid is this
simplistic and supposedly moral exhortation; and why
should the intervention of death, distinct from any
other known phenomenon, be the sole exculpation for
someone’s life-long sins and premeditated wrongdoings
that disparagingly have callously, schemingly,
perniciously, quite methodically and comprehensively
destroyed the lives of so many who were
exclusively picked on and especially targeted for
reasons of dogmatic political ideology, or
those specifically and illogically
associated with their race
or ethnicity.

I was never a miner viewed as the country’s low-life and
thusmalevolently castigated as the enemy within, but
I am and have longstandingly been a proud trade
unionist whose movement just as
viciously by this self-centred,
venal and privileged elite was likewise tarred
with the same condemnatory brush and
scandalously branded the same.

Similarly, I was an anti-apartheid activist firmly
committed, as I always will be, to the noble concept
globally of the universality of human rights, equality
for all human beings and the ultimate eradication
of racism, tirelessly working also in tandem
for freedom of expression by everyone,
genuine democracy and the lawful and
moral right to withhold one’s labour,
and particularly so in manufactured industrial
disputes specifically designed to disrupt the cohesion,
deliberately break-up and ruthlessly destroy the
bargaining rights of all trade unions. 

So why would I, or anyone else for that matter
with a social conscience, want to actually
eulogize and not rightly despise someone who,
while together with their husband was
profiting massively financially from South Africa’s
apartheid system, none the less perversely saw fit
to label Nelson Mandela a terrorist and roundly
vilify the ANC as a terrorist organization, while
astonishingly and without a modicum of regret
laud the architects of apartheid and the
ardent supporters of institutionalized
racism as the veritable champions of
what they deem as democracy?

Unless, of course, such individuals have short or convenient
memories and are themselves a complete abomination of what
society, which we were told by this woman doesn’t exist,
or come to that humanity should actually represent!
So I’ve no apologies to make or will I relent from
the stance I’ve taken because Death, inevitable
to us all, has finally, and some would
justifiably say, long-sufferingly and somewhat
kindly stepped in and brought the life of yet
another tyrant to its end. So feel free those of you
who want to eulogize or even dress yourself up
in sackcloth and ashes if you wish amidst your contrived beating
of chests and sorrowful refrains; but in doing so, I’d like for
you in your unrestrained orgy of engineered anguish
and false grief to jointly entreat you to abstain
from ever doing any of this in my name.

© Stanley V. Collymore
12 April 2013.

In the midst of life there is death the great leveller of us all. We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. So what doth it profit a man or woman if in their life time they gain all the riches of the world yet lose their soul for eternity? The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the Name of the Lord.

Copyright © Stanley Collymore | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |


Kill a smile with a kiss
The demise of it will visit you in your dreams
Never will I let you
Drown in a pool of angry thoughts
I will be your unexpected smile
Every time I bring u roses b4 valentine
A wet poem I would recite for you

I would make you my 1st rhyme
your heart-beat will rhyme
Twist my beat box
Into a love song
A cartoon I would paint in your heart to keep you smiling
Your twin smiles I would define in vernacular
Though I speak no language from Peninsula
My parents will define your beauty as African splendor
Black mother nation
Smile please smile

Copyright © Raymond Ngomane | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Woman Warrior's Soliloquy

My country, the U.S.A. is not for men only but for all Her children 
and that’s why I joined the military to protect this beautiful country 
from all the foes who surround us.

To defeat the enemies 
who wanted to quench the ever-burning torch 
that our Lady of Liberty holds high in the air
I joined the military with pride.

Whether they are visible or not,
I must keep my vigilant eyes on enemies
go and attack their fortress before they attack us,
make them fall to the ground before they harm our Lady 
who stands tall by the eastern shore of this beautiful country.

As a woman,
I know there are many different ways to serve the country 
with feminine trends, do good to the society, add something 
to make better for the future generations to come, 

I chose to wear a military uniform, nonetheless.
Because I heard the horrible story of Peal Harbor
from my grandpa when I was a little girl,
I witnessed the fall of the Twin Towers
and the death of many innocent lives 
only because they were American,
only because this country is unbearably beautiful 
to the eyes of those covetous enviers.

I understand that 
from the beginning of the history of our nation 
to this critical hour of war on terror,
many lives were sacrificed to keep America strong,
there were many men and women who fought to keep America 
as the country with the spirit of unyielding,
and that’s why I joined the military.

I am a proud daughter of America
the most beautiful country in the world.
I am a uniformed service woman of America
the mightiest country on earth.

Let us keep America for the people of America,
let us make our Star-Spangled Banners flutter 
on the top of our nation’s highest mountains forever. 

*For International--exclusively for U.S., Women's Day 


Copyright © Su Ben | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

An End to Aloneness

In my life I often feel I am alone; alone in my thoughts, alone in my musings, alone in my day-to-day movements and unsatisfying activities. I move like a ghost through hallways and down sidewalks, unnoticed and, at times, gratefully so. 
I do not wish to be eternally alone. I long for togetherness. But despite this desire for a real connection, I find myself regularly retreating from that temperamental beast that is human interaction. 

“Come on now, sweetheart. Don’t lower your head. Don’t look away. Look up! Smile at someone! No! Don’t go back into your bedroom. Don’t lock the door! Why are you doing this?” my brain will plea. 

I can’t help myself. Aloneness is comfortable. In being alone, I don’t have to worry about anyone but myself. I don’t have to please anyone else. I can think anything I want, wear anything I want, listen to anything I want, and laugh at anything I want. 

And still there remains that nagging desire to be loved and wanted and needed by somebody. I do not know the feeling of being truly desired. I do not know what it is like for someone to crave my company, my smile, my kiss, or my touch. 

                                                                              But I would like to…

I cannot make someone love me or like me or want me in some primal way. It may hurt, but I cannot make that handsome boy want to hold my hand or brush my hair back behind my ear. I can only struggle on. I can only work within myself. I can only try every God damn day to hold my head up, keep my eyes fixed ahead, a give the world the best smile I have. I and I alone can bring myself out of the safety of my bedroom and into the bright world that lies beyond that locked door. 
I often find myself alone with nothing more than my thoughts and the ever-strong glow of a computer screen. But no longer will aloneness be the constant in my life. It is true that never having known the caress of a man’s hand on my thigh doesn't make me any less of a woman, but I fear that if I stay confined within myself much longer I will begin to become less of a human. A flower cannot grow if it retracts its leaves and petals every time it feels the warmth of the sun or the kiss of a gentle spring rain.  
And I want to grow. I want to grow so tall and blossom so big and beautifully that every place on earth is touched by my shadow at some point in the day. And I will grow. I will push myself and share myself with the world, and finally
know the closeness and comfort of love and honest, unabashed companionship.

Copyright © Molly McCarthy | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

The most beautiful woman

If there is anything more beautiful than yourself in this world, 
That must be your reflection within my eyes, while we are making love 
And I see you, the most beautiful woman on my earth.

Copyright © Gitlan George | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

Nothing But Chalk

She sits there in the back of the class, doodling on her paperwork. Getting lost in 
the scribbles, tuning out the teacher, forgetting all the madness around her, her life 
fading in the paper. Slap! The sound of the ruler splintering across the desk. PAY 
ATTENTION! Head jerking upward, she sits up in her little desk. Pencil dropping from 
her hand, rolling off onto the floor. She looks straight ahead, back straight as a 
board, eyes glued ahead as the teacher drones on. Drilling things into their heads, 
eyes sharp like an eagle. Looking for every chance to catch someone falling asleep, 
to catch someone passing notes, to catch someone whispering. The little girl quietly 
picks up her pencil and her mind drifts to dreaming of playing dress up, drifts to the 
path the lead makes on the paper. The curves of a woman, not a little girl. Dreaming 
of growing up into a woman. Confident, pretty, smart, strong....someone people will 
notice....a woman with a voice. Slap! The ruler across her hand. She jerks it back, 
clasping it to her chest. Instant sting, instant redness and she feels the tears start 
to pool in her eyes, her lip quivering to hold back the yelp. Pay attention! You’re not 
listening! I asked you a question young lady. Should I repeat it? She’s so scared 
that she can’t even speak so she just meekly nods her head. Hard as steel, cold as 
ice, the teacher repeats the question. She hangs her head and answers but her 
voice is barely above a squeeking whisper. Speak up! says the teacher. The class 
can’t hear you, I can’t hear you she says. The little girl raises her head and repeats 
her answer. WRONG! Slap! The ruler across her other hand. See if you had been 
paying attention instead of DOODLING, then you wouldn’t have gotten the ruler. 
You’ll make sure next time you will listen now won't you. The little girl doesn’t 
answer, doesn’t speak up. She doesn’t want the ruler again. So she carefully and 
quietly lays her pencil on her little wooden desk that bares the markings of many 
ruler slappings. And on her little wooden desk, she rests her hands that bare the 
scars of many ruler slappings. She stares straight ahead at the chalkboard, 
unwavering, searing a hole in the chalkboard. She tries to find the dream of dress 
up, tries to find the girl dressing up as the woman she wants to be. But all she sees 
on the chalkboard…no matter how hard or how long she stares...all she sees on the 
chalkboard.....is nothing but chalk.

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

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 |



A woman is of so much importance, to herself and to all those around her.

For every woman is made special and beautiful
And yes,
She has a special task to perform......,
And certainly to bring joy to this world

She makes her family, and she makes her home complete.
She is a mother,
And she is a wife.
She is a sister,
And a friend if you need!
She is definitely a daughter to a great woman as well!

A woman has so many roles to play and so many acts to perform.

Special she is, akin to God

For no other can endure life’s happiness, pains, sorrows and grief all at once.
She is like a sponge that will soak all of the sorrows,
And yet she will still be able to smile through it all,
Even if her heart bleeds, a strong woman is all you will see.

Her tears are her comfort, only when she is alone
For she can feel her pain no other will know,
She has a right to herself you know, to grieve if she wishes so,
For a woman’s right is not only for herself,
But to please others too!

This is the importance that no one can deny a woman, 
A strong woman!

Copyright © Avashna Pakraj | Year Posted 2015

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 |



here she is:  the true resurrection,
the big reveal of the woman,
the poet who charges
for a word, a touch,
a speck of  blood.
after all, she has come back
three times to his 


unlike the christ man 
she charges yet again
for the seeing of her scars, 
the hearing of her
heart.  she says it really goes
and who are we to doubt 
the poet who rises up 

in broad daylight like a miracle.

every decade she does it again,
the big strip tease, claiming 
always to be the same identical woman.
i listen to her shriek and weep, 
as she wiggles into death
as though it truly is an art.
she truly is a dangerous woman,

unwrapped hand and foot,
flesh and bone, she turns and burns

and eats men like air.

(Poem based on Lady Lazarus by Sylvia Plath)

Jim Brewer
April 11, 2011

Copyright © Jim Brewer | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |


She emerge out of man
Deepest part of his rib
Woman o’ woman
Waited for life expression

She is a true portion of man
The secret of his strength
The secret of his weakness
The secret of his first love

She is full of nature’s beauty
Her virtue like a blossom flower
Her heart full of man’s respect
Her ability worth many shooting stars

Woman is peculiar
She rises with the sun
She sleeps only when the moons signal
And she aims for the sky

She breaths patience 
She talks courage
She sings true family life
And she smiles love
She ignores blocks of limitations

Copyright © Olivia Nimley | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Burning Woman

Burning Woman

I am watching
her embodied animation;
in exaggerated intonation.
Lightning ricochets about
in eyes
threatening to ignite my addiction.

I wish she would share her fire.

Brows invert; speech sharpens
A needle into my skull.

She is right, as always.

But this humble fuel will remain cold.

Then at night, when lights burn low,
I am left to rub sticks together
shoot inconsequential sparks.
Nothing will ignite her
until Morning comes.

Copyright © Dylan Wong | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |


Pharisee went into the Temple to pray
Sure of his goodness and love for God
He prayed confidently about his deeds
Fasting, tithing, praying, He did faithfully
This man was glad when the sinner came
Into the Temple with eyes downcast.
For it gave a perfect contrast to himself.
So he thanked God he wasn't like this sinner.
Sinner was bowed so very low before God.
"God have mercy on me a sinner." he whispered.
No list of good uttered, as he could see none.
Jesus said Sinner not Pharisee was justified.
Simon the Pharisee invited Jesus over to eat.
Simon didn't have servants wash Jesus feet
He didn't kiss Jesus or draw near for fear,
Fear of what others Pharisees would think.
In came a sinful woman with unkempt hair.
She wept at Jesus feet without looking up.
Carefully she wiped these feet with her hair.
Simon was now sure Jesus was no prophet
A prophet could surely tell she was a sinner.
How could he let her touch him that way?
Reading Simon's thoughts Jesus taught.
Using this contrast in real life as a lesson.
He asked Simon if there were two debts
One greater, one lesser and both forgiven.
Who would feel greater love and gratitude?
Simon replied, "The one whose debt was greater"
"Correct" said the One who would pay all debts.
Those who know their debt to God is great.
Are filled with greater love toward the Savior.
Simon showed he had little need for the Christ.
But to the woman. Jesus said, "You sins are forgiven."
"Go and sin no more." She stood free and esteemed
Precious are those who come humbly to the Lord
He will forgive and welcome them to His Family forever.
Humility. Pride. Contrast. Mixed in all of us.
People who come to God feeling worthless, Christ lifts up.
People striding in proudly, Jesus humbles to allow entry.
For the Lord's Kingdom's door is incredibly low.
So low that we enter only through true confession
From the heart to Jesus as Savior who humbled Himself
Coming down from glory to earth's mess to make a Way.
By humbling Himself on a Cross – Universe's God tortured.
Jesus contrast makes ours seem small – so why wait?
May we take the humble road to Life, risen Christ made.
Joining God's family of forgiven, freed, joyful sinners.
New life's contrast with old will grow as we follow Him.
By a thankful sinner now saint by Jesus' grace

Copyright © Scott Bronner | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Piercing My Heart

Piercing my heart:

Her nose-pin twinkles at me,
Her lip-ring smiles at me,
Her dark eyes make me lust,
Leaving everything like rust.
Her cheek-piercings make fake dimples,
Fake eyelashes arise ripples,
Inside my heart.
She is a prostitute from Havana,
I first met her in a sea-side cabana,
On my head, she fastened a cool bandana,
Every night, she gives me insomnia.
Tiny star tattoos trailing her waist,
I want to keep her in my vest,
On me, she pours liquor of zest,
With her I’m never exhausted.
To her tunes, I’m devastated.
The navel piercing makes her sensuous,
She makes my heart joyous,
The tattooed sun under her navel,
and the inked baby angel,
Are enough to create a novel,
About her.
I can’t forget the cross tattoo on her backbone,
And the chuckle of her cheekbone.
I can’t forget how her toe-rings caressed my body,
And her toe-rings were gazed by me.
To me, she means joy,
Her cupid tattoo is carnal envoy.
She showers drops of joy,
With tiny stars convoy.
I kissed the tribal tatt on her lower back,
I’ve loved her for god’s sake,
Her sensuality makes me shake,
But I am not fake.
I desire to bed her every night;
I desire to be her personal knight,
Loving her is my birth right,
I conceal her inside.
She is my secret passion,
She is my strange obsession,
I can tear away all taboos for her,
She has pierced my heart.
I love the way she smokes a cigar,
I love how she applies glitter,
I love the way her lips shimmer,
But I hate the way she ogles at strangers.
I depict her face on my life-canvas,
I inscribe her name on each piece of paper,
She makes my days luminous.
She is invincible and incredible,
In my life, her presence is inevitable.
I wish I were a gem of her necklace,
I’d ward off her foes like savage,
I’ve kissed her anklet,
I’ve loved her restless,
She’s made me mad,
And colored my fad!!

Copyright © Jayeeta Shamsul | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

Creation, Curse and Promise

Since eternity past God the Father Son & Holy Spirit dwelled in unity and sweet fellowship.
Then Three-In-One decided to make a marvelous universe with an earth for life to dwell.
Creating an amazing array of creatures was the easy part – the risk was on the last made.
For unlike other creatures, man & woman were made in God's likeness with a Spirit.

That Spirit communicated with God, and harmony reigned as earth was well cared for.
Freedom to do was great – limited by but one tree that the humans were not to ear from.
At that tree, Satan disguised himself as an innocent snake and asked the woman questions.
Did God really say don't eat from this tree?  Well, that's to keep you from becoming like Him.

Look its fruit is beautiful and one bite and you'll know what God does and be Jehovah's equal.
Eve was confused, for this didn't sound like what Adam said God told her, but wouldn't it be grand.
If God is so good, why would he keep this secret from us of being able to be like Him – is He jealous?
The firm, juicy fruit was indeed delicious, and she quickly called Adam to taste, which soon he did.

A small act? Every war, family problem, anger, hatred, lie, killing, stealing, rape, abuse came herefrom.
The beauty of God's creation was now marred with sin that affected every part with death and decay.
God graciously gave Adam & Eve animal skins for no longer would they live in Eden's perfect climate.
From now on there would be sweat for the food they ate and exceedingly great pain during childbirth.
Even their firstborn would murder their second, starting the cycle of revenge and killing that's ongoing.

Yet God also made a promise that one would come who would crush Satan's head while being bruised.
"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God and the Word was God" clues us in to who.
For God's Son Himself would come to teach, heal and offer His life on a Cross to destroy our death curse.
Our sins He would bear and in rising He's seal the promise of eternal life, so great we Jesus' love for us.

For Jesus the cost was unbelievably high, and for us the reward is incredibly great – if we but accept.
Accept that I am a sinner, I've done wrong and need God's forgiveness to live with His perfection.
Accept that Jesus can do what I cannot – change my heart, make my Spirit alive to forever live with God.
This being GOD, the promise of heaven and new earth is sure, though pain lies in between.  Choose now.

For GOD and all creation cry out – this is what life is meant for – to know and love One's Maker.
As humans we live eternally with or apart from God, and His great desire is that we choose with.
But just as an earthly Father cannot force true love, nor does our Heavenly Father – He waits.
Though He made all and knows beginning from end, he waits and yearns that we receive His love.

Then love and be loved by Jesus in life's harshness & delight, sharing that love with other lost children
To work in harmony with the One who made us, makes life new again as our spirit is filled with new life.
There can be dry days when we don't feel His presence, and others so full that we want to shout for joy.
The fact is Our Father GOD, our Savior Jesus, the Holy Spirit, are always with us and never will leave us. Amen.

Copyright © Scott Bronner | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |


All right, here is the scenario and the how. Defeat the deceit she believes to be 
hers, abandon the bond between us, with re-established trust admiration and lust 
must appear. Bring me a woman that has made mistakes, bring me a woman that 
can appreciate love. Allow the grace of my space be music and fire, offer me in 
peace solitude to display my desires. Allow the pens flow in rhythm with the stereos 
display. Fire in dance lifts morbid ideas in each instance to date. I will behave in 
paradise, that is if they never surprise my glide. I know this really cool place at the 
mountains base where we can get away for a few days, the grass of noon will creep 
below our feet bare beneath the sun of June. Now we no longer must linger in wait, 
the time allowed for slide past debate is lost on my mind. My side, the right, slid left 
releasing the shake of my hand in invite. Freedom yet remains the stake, though 
money is no longer illusion. I wish to say something on this occasion upon which we 
now celebrate, as long as Christmas has wreath I will have wrath and wreak havoc. 
You see love, mastering the art of conversation does not mean you control them, it 
means you are in them. Speak or fall, seek allies and meet demise, simply satisfying 
me with surrounding may eliminate inquiry. They are all so pretty with their smiles, 
so sexy with their denial yet none are beautiful. The three core parts of woman that 
carry the absolutes of truth: the eyes, the mind and the smile. For these attributes I 
offer dream and choice of my serenities. Let it be aggressively possessive, 
astonishingly perceptive, apparently personable, awakened passion paints a 
portrait of a poet.

Copyright © Ryan Wegenast | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |


You where the breath of my joy and heaven,
now you are my curse, blotch, and you delete the rainbow of my smile
Why so, woman of mud?

You where the fountain and rose of my heart,
now you’re the thrones that grow on the hills of my rose
and make my rose look like a mountain of pain.
Why so, woman of mud?

You where the highly skilled love miracle maker that turned my tears to wine 
and give my cry special effects, 
because when I am crying and I think of you, I suddenly start laughing.
But now, you turn my smile to clay and my tears to a red river of agony, and you roll my cry with your temper of hate down the mountain of darkness.
Why so, woman of mud?

You where the pure guide that guided all our belongings with your cloud of kindness, 
and you never did without showering your waters of affection on me.
But now, you scatter all that belongs to us in the deepest pit of unkindness, and you bleed away what we felt for each other through your rain of anguish.

You always said to me, 
that theirs no such thing as heartbreak,
because you will never ever leave the path of our purple love, and you shall always be there for me like the stars that set on the eyes of skies.
But now, you boldly crush and pond my heart in your mortar of anguish and walk away leaving my skies blind.
Why so, woman of mud?
You where the light that lighted up the candle of my soul when I was damp and hollow and this made me glow intensively. You also always told me the darkest secrets I could not even tell you.
But now you blow so hard to wind away the light of my soul, flushing me dip down into the land of isolated slaves, where I hear your gossips about me.
Why so, woman of mud?

You were my brightest sunset and you never did without hugging and holding my hands, for you always saw me as your palace of refuge in times of traffic danger.
But now, you’ll rather become hell, just to see me cry and burn, and you’ll rather also just walk gently into death, so as not to call me your hero.
Why so, woman of mud?

You where my law of pleasant admiration and I could never carry on without you by my life, because you where my dramatic wonder of love.
But now, you are my flaws of unpleasant admiration and I have no choice nor muddle but to move on in my soberest mood, without you woman of mud, because you are now my thunder of hate,
Woman of mud!

Copyright © femi joey oloidi | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

Tater Sack Annie

On a raft in the river tied to a tree, lived in an old woman of whom most folks made fun. She didn't talk much, most thought she was dumb. Kids being curious, and the summer being hot, the cool of the river drew our disobedient lot. We kids soon discovered the crude raft and the tent. We oddly made friends with its strange occupant. Tried as we might to find out her name. All we got was a smile from the toothless old dame. One thing for certain we kids soon found out. Social graces she lacked, but her kindness made up for that fact. Times being tough and money being tight, often we kids confided our plight. She didn't care if we were dirty or poor. She loved her little friends all the more. We didn't mind her fashion was lack. She wore a dress made from and old "tater sack." What troubled us was she didn't have a name. We didn't care from where she came. One day as we sat on the bank, a thought came to mind. We were disgusted with folks being unkind. "Everybody's got a name," said one. "Let's call her 'Tater Sack Annie'", said another, so it was done. Annie smiled at us. She liked her new name. She didn't say much, just smiled again. She motioned for us kids to her camp for lunch. She always fed our whole bunch. Fried taters, catfish and greens. All of us believed she was a woman of means. Several summers went by. One year the fall came. A saturday night, folks out for a lark. Didn't see Annie walking home in the dark. Somebody sent, and a somber Sherriff came, "Anybody her know her name?" He spoke to the group. Two boys stepped forward, both knelt to a stoop. "That's our 'Tater Sack Annie'", they spoke in a low tone. Both their faces ashen and as white as bone. Today in a churchyard no monument gleams. Only a simple stone reads, "Annie a lady of means."

Written by my grandmother Sandra Burch

Copyright © Ashley Abraham | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

That Kind Of Person

There are people who are simply dazzling
What they do to you, you can’t explain.
With just a single instant you can know;
Know that I can live with this person and all their troubles.

That kind of person you know I can marry.
That kind of person whose picture you can zoom into from all angles.
That kind of a person whom when you think of, inspires your whole day.
That kind of a person whose smile you would want to see each morning.

How much I wish she knew.
She is that kind of person I want write my only vows for.
That kind of person I want to be my first and my last.
That kind person I want to laugh, cry, jubilate and spend every day with.
She is that kind of person I dig.

Her presence creates an aura that mesmerizes my heart, and furnishes my soul
In her presence my heart is buoyant, in a serene atmosphere, which she only can create.
She is that kind of person.
I hope, I am that kind of a person that makes her blush,
That kind of person that makes butterflies rejoice in her belly.
I want to be that kind of person.
I want to marry you 

Copyright © Walter T Rambwi | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Lady From Afar

The Lady From Afar

(verse 1 by Jimmy Boom Semtex/Nick Armbrister. Verse 2 by P.J. Reed)

I see the lady from afar. She looks away, not from me but from something else. I'm unsure what. It appears to be known only to her. Some malady tormenting her that others can't see. Is it in her mind or something else? A mischievous spirit or malevolent demon? With the power to tarnish this lady's reputation, hound her senses and crush her will to live. A frightful expression forms upon her pretty face. Shadows drop over her light green eyes. Real or imagined? Fantastically cruel or fakery beyond doubt? Her long black dress once looked elegant. Now it's stained ever darker - blood! Her own or another's? If another's, what happened? A fight with a lover? A duel with her sister? An insane mother finally coming unhinged? Or herself, falling to the abyss?

She approaches; trailing lavender fields and golden summers through the amber streets. A thousand years of ancient wonder in the greeness of her eyes. Drifts of ebony hair wave to me as she walks. An intoxicating eastern beauty I reach out as she glides by. Black dress caught between by fingers, crumbles to my touch. I breathe her ash, it cuts my throat, makes my eyes bleed red. I choke in penance for my lust and fall screaming to the ground as I see in the distance the lady from afar.

Copyright © nick armbrister jimmy boom semtex | Year Posted 2015