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Prose Poetry Women Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Women

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

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Details | Prose Poetry |

Least We Forget The Girls' Killing Cry: Apropos The Boko Aaram Girls

(Apropos The Boko Haram Girls)

We no longer hear
the screams of the young girls
nor the whimpering
of their little brothers—
nor the echoes of falling tears
of grieving widowed mothers
and the muffled hush, hush, hush
to new born babes.

How much longer
must we awake
to another morning
we wished we never lived to see? 

Mornings where
the horizon’s plains
are dotted with earthen keloids
of humpbacked graves
in overpopulated makeshift cemeteries 
where food crops once grew.
Horizons reminiscent of 
the screaming echoes animating
from departing Middle Passage ships.

How much longer
must we experience nights
of damned deranged dads—brothers
roaming, ravaging, raping
sisters and slitting mothers’ throats;  
damned deranged dads—brothers  
driven by a demonized illusion
of the Nile goddess of fertility;
intoxicating themselves
with chalices of their families’ blood?
How much longer?!!!

How much longer 
must our daughters remain
forgotten victims
Of those who’ve lost the free
in freedom—like those who’ve sold the in
in independence—lackeys 
to and of ancient slave masters
who’ve learned well 
the western ways of deception?

Unmoved and no longer
grievously concerned,
the world mesmerizes itself
with a deceived sacrilege image
of a revered Nile goddess.
Meanwhile, defiled bodies
of African girls
are no longer newsworthy…
these wretched of the earth sisters
continue to suffer ethnocentric
rape and gendercide: perpetuations
of free roaming…hoodwinked brethren,
inebriated with neo-colonial genocide.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2017

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 |

Controlling Men: Physically, Mentally, and Verbally Abusive Men

All men (the loser boyfriends/husbands) think that it's their right to be physically, mentally, and verbally abusive toward their female companions (girlfriends/wives), well they're wrong. Most guys are always beating their girlfriends/wives up every single day just because they didn't make their men dinner, do chores around the house, or whatever. It seems that these womanizing losers are way better than their women. Actually, they're not; they're idiots. Controlling these women and being physically, mentally, and verbally abusive toward them don't make these Neanderthals men; they're like childish cowards. All guys think that they're the only breadwinners in their families and the women aren't. But guess what--they're not; some of them don't have jobs. And does anyone knows what gets on my nerves? Men always cheating on their girlfriends/wives with other women, getting them pregnant, and not taking care of the children they already have. And those controlling, abusive men, they're always telling their female spouses/lovers what to do, what to eat, where to look, and who to talk to. I mean, who are these womanizing losers to judge other men and to boss these women around? I mean, who does that? Everybody doesn't even know why they'd bother spending the rest of their lives with those abusive idiots. This whole saying by these controlling abusive men have been getting on everybody's nerves and my nerves, as well: "You're-not-to-speak-unless-spoken-to," this "You're-not-to-talk-to-your-family" ordeal, this whole "You're-not-to-have-guy-friends," and this whole "You need me! You're nothing without me! You have no money! You have no friends! Everything's in my name: the house, the cars, clothes, everything I own! You're useless! You're worthless! I own you for life! And you will respect me!" Where I come from, the rest of us nicer guys, we treat our women with the respect they rightfully deserve. The last time I checked, the mothers have raised their sons to treat women and other people with respect, but they now know where they've gone wrong with those womanizing clowns. My suggestion for the women is for them to leave their abusive husbands/boyfriends before it's too late because if they don't, they'll end up in the hospital or the morgue. To be honest, these women, they never should've met, let alone dated or married those abusive men to begin with. And if these abusive men think that they can control those women forever, they've got another coming.

Copyright © Brashard Bursey | Year Posted 2012

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 |


Have you ever imagined the world we live without women?
It is like a lung without some oxygen, agonizing and inevitably dead,
A face never with a smile, boring and unfriendly.
A cup of tea without some grains of sugar, bitter and foul,
A pool without some water, dry and empty,
A good ride on a bad untilled road, rough and uninteresting,
The earth without some drops of rain, an inescapable famine,

But how come with the great number of women on planet earth?
We still live to cry as a reggae legend sang “no woman no cry”,
It is because they permit evil as much as they permit good,
Gullible and instrumental in the hand of the wicked ones,
Ugly and nice, beautiful and dangerous,
Cunning like serpents, deceitful like chameleon,
Holy but liars, having a form of godliness but highly ungodly,
Lovely like little puppies, sweet like bees honey,
Women, an invincible force in our our world today.

(c) 2010

Copyright © Joshua Akinwande | Year Posted 2011

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 |


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 |

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 |



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 |


It’s impossible to start a movement,
Have it in full swing,
Yet prevent it from going
To the other extreme.
It’s imprudent to culminate involvement,
Have a large mass,
Yet not expect scatterbrains
To drive it downstream.

There was once a time
When stereotypes were galore
Class, gender, race, caste,
The society would bore.

A change was necessary
To bring forth the suppressed.
To look for their soul
And not the way they were dressed.

Read the full poem ONLY on my blog, just a click away:


You could also read my other works and their inside scoop on the blog.

See you there.

Copyright © Shivam Murari | Year Posted 2016

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 |

Birth of Thanksgiving

Back in the year 1621...
Began a tradition, for everyone...
It started with fleeing from religious persecution...
As a group from England sought a solution...
They landed in Holland, but to their demise...
Which after a while brought quite a surprise...
Found their children attached to the ways of the Dutch...
And by their standards, considered frivolous and such...
Threating education and morality...
Which was the original reason why they did flee...
They set sail again, all one-hundred and ten...
Young and the old, women and men...
Where they were going, no one knew...
Not even the Captain nor his crew...
On a large wooden ship , they sailed out to sea...
And for sixty-five days, not all did agree...
So after landing, a meeting was held...
The name “Pilgrim “ was chosen, and no one quelled...
Winter was devastating, so many died...
And of the one-hundred and ten , only fifty survived...
On March of 1621...two Indians appeared...
They both spoke English, so no one feared...
Samoset and Squanto taught them trapping, hunting and planting of corn...
So the next years’ winter, they would all be well fed and warm... 
On the fourth Thursday of November, before the snow fell...
The Pilgrims and Indians, or so I hear tell...
Sat down to a feast fit for a king...
On this the first of a “ Thanksgiving “...

Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |


Kyrie was struggling to overcome barriers of demarcation. “Holodomor” she was facing. This artificial famine was brutally taking Ukrainians lives. In nineteen hundred and twenty-nine, the manifestation of human hate crimes would be a terrorist regime. The screens Kyrie would experience would became life threatening. “Death by hungry” was in all eyes. Eighty years has passed. Soviet Joseph Stalin’s massacre transpired. From nineteen hundred and thirty-two thru nineteen hundred and thirty-three the Soviet regime took seven million lives. Kyrie and her brother Allah was blessed to survive. The story is her father died early on. Her mother walked far to find food. She would exchange her earnings and a gold pendant she wore on her dress just for a sack of flour and nothing else. She formed the flour into a loaf of bread, which tasted liked grass. Tears forms knowing this was all her and her children had. Wretchedness it is to know that too many peopled did not have anything at all to eat. To genocide was an atrocity. A silent wasteland of God’s people must be exposed. Ukrainians today discloses. _________________________| PENNED ON AUGUST 25, 2014!

Copyright © Verlena S. Walker | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |


It has been drawn into attention that you constantly mention my faults. Point one at me and three you'll see point back at the enemy. You're no longer a friend to me; woman! My mind is like an anus. I'm in need of an enema; flushed from your hatred and cleared from your betrayals. I need a clean slate to scratch new records to turn tables. My head is stuck into a kink; of sorts. To name a few things, my shoulders have shrugged often; leaving my neck at your mercy; woman! Torture is my eternal chamber when I'm in your grasp. A bubble from my nostril; water fills my lungs. A hand pressed firmly atop of my face as the hot and cold water runs.
An illusion of the mind... Good one; woman! A falsehood created by manipulation of my own being. A battle with one’s own self righteousness as another holds the strings; the puppeteer is almighty; believes only in herself. She will cut your neck and wrap the strings around your throat. Left for brain dead and mentally broken; but I… (Yes! Me) I still want to help you. I care about you…; woman! For some unknown force compels me so. I can't place the blame because the blame hasn't a place; you know. It leads back to me. You control me because I let you; woman! You lie to me because I let you convince me; woman! You control me…; woman! But I (yes me!); I love you; woman! I love everything about you, even though you make me feel like shit and only care about yourself. You're an infectious disease which effects mental health. I love you more than I love myself. Woman…; lying, cheating, manipulating…; woman! But wait; just you wait a minute… man! (Minute man) I've heard that not all women are like you. I know its true (yes! Me) I really, really do! I met a few. They care about people and don't feel entitled to things that they haven't personally earned. (And-Even) Offer respect and help when a man does his part. Work is an obligation to provide. Which should be rewarded; not discarded as a lack of parenting that cannot be replaced with any amount of money; but give me a break; woman! We all must survive.  I love those kids and want to have them in my life and I want to be part of the decision making…; woman! I hear there are many, many women would respect this. You are who you are; women! Please let me be who I am... There's a rumor floating around that not all women are like you… WOMAN!

Copyright © Ir0nic ZiNk | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |


It ain’t no man’s world 
Someone told a lie 
Who would be so foolish to side-line women
Just to show how macho a man is?

It is a woman’s world 
For they give birth and 
Make men care 
It is they who are closest to
Gaia our mother earth and
We should forever hold them dear 

Men can’t do without women 
For they won’t ever get through the day
Only a fool will say 
It is only Men who make the world grow 
They should be sent far away

Women are to be praised 
For they put up with silly men 
Who know not how to value 
The women who give their
Lives meaning

Without women men would go astray 
They will never learn to cope
With the struggles of life  
And the ills that living sends their way

Women as ever are guiding lights
They soften the brute force of
Manly ego
They make room for humanity 
And teach men the first things they know

To be a woman 
Is not all about being feminine
And dainty
It is about creating a place for love 
And happiness
In this world we know 

Copyright © evrod samuel | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |


Puke all over the seat and get some on your dogs head 
and a little on the wife’s  purse get her good 
and Madd at yew so she will take the car keys 
and drop them in the piranha pool to keep 
the control of the car away from yew. 
DO not ever try to drive the car like that again. 
Be my friend let the motor idle when the belly 
has an idol in the center of your disgusting 
fatness leave the driving to the women 
or call the rental. Drinking is a disease 
of the mind heart liver central being alcoholic yew. 
It is now not only whiskey but people drugging 
swagging smoking of the left handed Turkish variety 
just puffing passing smoking inhaling 
like a Clinton Will. Stronger measures now aer 
needed to stop the added danger of a high 
mucky muck brown frame toker from totaling 
the soccer van of Mother. There is station wagons 
on the road this mourning with whiskey bumps 
all over them the women drivers not exempt 
from hitting poles and other cars 
and then my friend there is the LAW of Johnny 
combined to probable cause. When the police man shines 
his light inside the car and sees at least thirteen 
empty beer bottles laying in the back seat empty 
he has a right to ask ewe iff ewe aer recycling them 
or drinking. A road test complete with breathalyzer 
please make them touch the nose 
never mind the sneezes please.

Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2008

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

Details | Prose Poetry |

Mother Goddess

Stone age of first human phase,
Men were wild, women too;
Life was struggle, tussle,
For quenching hunger and thirst;
Men fought until death,
Strongest won over women's will;
Quenching sensual lust,
Was ultimate purpose of life;
'Ling' a power, 
Used 'Yoni' as bitch,
Whenever, whatever wished;
Men came and went,
Father was unknown,
Women raised their kids;
Motherly instinct sparked,
One Nigger woman rose;
Fought for her entity,
Revolted in full force; 
Held sharp edge tool in hand, 
Assaulted and massacred,
Males of sinful souls;
Who dared killing new born,
For driving her urge on;
She was daring, violent,
Swore to annihilate daemons;
Came forth establishing
'Yoni' as Goddess,
Protected her new born,
From devil and monsters;
She endured pain, sacrificed,
Dedicated to upbringing kids,
And her family as a whole;
Thirty children, grand children
And grand to grand, 
All others who followed,
Endorsed her motherhood instinct;
Chanted mantra for Felicity;
" 'O' Mother you save us to survive, 
You crush all evil spirits,
Devils who dared destroy us;
You save us from famine, fire, malady;
With your blessings, 
Lakes won't dry;
'O' mother of moon, Sun and Stars,
You control flow of breeze,
Your divinity reign brings us rain;
You are mother earth,
Your womb conceives seeds,
Engenders them into sprout,
Raise them until shapes
Flourished tree;
You are our "Mari Ammal", 
'Vigorous mother' of all, 
We bow down, pay tribute,
'O' You holy spirit;
Worship you for fortune";

© Sadashivan Nair  

Copyright © sadashivan nair | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

Gundar Nils

Kathryn's Saga.....a work in Progress.....

History.....A lone Viking ship...with Black Sails......Pounding the waves.....in the midst of 
natures fury.....The worse the weather the more the Gods looked on with favor.
Gunder Nils hated and loved this journey.....
Everything about it was wrong.  
The wrong time of year (Fall). 
Winter storms...he did not care.  
The Welsh had killed his son 
And there was to be revenge.... 

Gunder lamented the losse of his first born son
Lladnar....(pronouced ...Yadnar).  
Who had just turned twenty-seven....
a mature and strong Viking....
out to prove his worth by raiding Southern Welsh shores....
but yet he was dead......
killed by a  so called....
Welsh Tribal Prince.

“Revenge!  Killing has to be done....
screamed Gunder,  
his blonde gray mane matted to his skull from the salty spray...
”Damn you all...
row ...
he bellowed from the helm.....
and the gods listened...
The Sail's filled 
and the Viking ship pushed Southward under Gail force winds
Gunder at the helm...
a Demon.....
There will be blood!
Welshland.....before pre-history....after the Battle of Epona Plains......A victory.
The Women!

A Festival was held.......
A Fall Harvest...
Let the Northlanders starve...

Our men are warriors 
and we are are their wives 
and mothers 
and daughters 
and lovers......

The women sang as they danced around the bond fire...
covered in  blue clay....
from sacred places. 
“A Galic Wiccan Womens Song” 

“Our men..all brave to the one....
We are your women!
Our men saved our homelands!.....from the hordres of the North.
Sing to how much they love us..our men..
They who fought so hard to save us....

Take our heros to your beds....
We need the seed of strong men....
Oh! Our men....need us now.....
To create more sons....fighters....Warriors all....
So our daughters may survive...

Kathryn was but a child of thirteen that year....
And was not allowed to dance with the women
And older girls..who were ready..and oh, so willing
To take on the strongest......
of our men.
Sex is survival......
of the strongest.

The wails of women in the throes of ectasty...
filled the night air
and into the early morning....
till the fires needed tending.....
their men
Exhausted...and drained.

For the next six months the ritual was practiced....
until all the fertile women were with child....
every man a Father or Uncle.....

The Men......to be continued...

Copyright © Randall Smith | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry |

No More Kanswer

Screaming loud awakening the neighbors
Shouting like a drunkard in the village bars
Calling for help
Sleepless night it seems
And the following morning she only has kanswer

She never got any pleasure
Agony was a best friend
There was no home to treasure
Sadness was part of the lafamilia
But she still had kanswer

She knew not english
She knew not mathematics
But she knew homescience
How to cook and fetch water
But she still  had kanswer

I hate kanswers
When men are oppressed
It's a tragedy
When women are oppressed
It's a tradition
But we sit back and give kanswer

Kanswers kill slowly like cancer
I am an African woman
I say no more kanswer
I now have a stop answer
Because I am an African Girl

Copyright © Faith Simotwo | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Dirty Chicks

Are "dirty chicks" women who don't bathe?

Or are they "colored" girls who got too

much sun, forgetting to hide in the shade?

The term "dirty chicks" may refer to women 

who are raunchy,

The alternative could be boring and staunchy,

Who creates these labels, and why?

Women have enough on their plates without

having to be bombarded with negative accolades,

"Dirty Chicks" are probably women who have rubbed other

women the wrong way, so they seek sympathy by putting their

jealousies on display.

Copyright © Margeret Bailey | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |


The dawn breaks with the prayer call
In the woods nearby
walking on the Earth's breast is the farmer
whose sweat would now kiss the harvest, the crops; the Earth
what more could she have asked for; when every afternoon,
she gets a drop of gift from her son,
in the form of gratitude and love
she was thirsty
for the rain
when the bosom of the sky 
cleft asunder and tear drops fell down
it was all the result of her son's cry; for his mother was in pain; she had not seen rain for a time
her son smiles with joy
the sky reverted to his prayer
after all, there is someone
who is all ears
to that prayer at dawn
which woke up the farmer
which woke up the Earth's son.

Copyright © Sanya Darakhshan Kishwar | Year Posted 2017

Details | Prose Poetry |

Red High-Heeled Shoes

Red High-Heeled Shoes
Soft word
When it touches me
I could sing like a nightingale
For days
You are gorgeous
Like a dream
Like a fairy tale
I’m a hopeless romantic
Not sure if I’ve told you
I love you so much
Love your tender words
Hopping cheerfully
All over my hair…
Kissing me
Not sure if I’ve told you
But what I like most
Are your red high-heeled shoes
You’re so lovely
I love you

Copyright © Stefan Maxima | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Let's Make A Deal

Let’s Make A Deal

Wife said to husband, “Stop for directions, and I promise not to shop for new shoes”.

Whether your team wins or loses, you’ll pay for chips, dips, and carpet cleaning.

I said to a friend, “Have a nice day”; he replied saying, “You can’t tell me what to do”.

Kidding I guess, when daddy said, “I’m going West, where the eagle builds his nest”

Over a 40 year period, I 've earned 7 or 8 traffic citations; my wife has absolutely 0.

12102015 (One Liner 6,7,8,9,10 Contest)

Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |


she has  carry on
she was born
in a world thats tore
she deserve repect
she is the best yet
time she walk alone

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

Details | Prose Poetry |

Warrior Wombs

Warrior Wombs
(for Sandy and the loss of our first grandson)
By Joyce Teed

Warrior Wombs
Every woman
Has an untold story
A secret
Or unseen
Her story
Silent sorrows
Wounds with no words
Winding through the untold 
History of all women
Empty wombs
Mistimed pregnancies
Unwanted babies
Wanted babies 
wished for babies 
babies without a heartbeat
Of weeding out
The mistakes

A blessing perhaps

Women wear 
these truths of nature
Doubting themselves
Shoring themselves up
Reminding us 
Of the tenuousness of life
And the 
Tender disappointments
Awaiting us around each curve of life

Bodily hazards

And then there is our hearts
For our loss
Yet shoring up to bring in another life
Or not
We all don’t get the same luck
Or burden 

But together we stand
Sisters in sorrow
Crying for the unborn
Unspoken lives
That we have all 
welcomed and mourned.

Tough love
Was never harder
And now
Some righteous men demand
A funeral for a fetus
As if that would heal the wound
As if it would not punish more harshly
And more publically
Our hurts
Our disappointments
Our wounds

We know how to heal ourselves.
We embrace our loses
We never forget
We empathize with other sisters’

We do not judge
We stand together
And wail.

Copyright © Joyce Teed | Year Posted 2017

Details | Prose Poetry |


here are a few prose from the bible................

in matthew,an angel is sitting on the rock outside the tomb;in mark,a youth is inside.in 
luke,two men are inside.in matthew,the two marys rush from the tomb in great fear and 
joy,run to tell the disciples and meet jesus on the way.in mark,they run out in fear and say 
nothing to anyone.in luke,the two women report the story to the disciples,who do not believe 
them and there is no suggestion they meet jesus.in matthew,when mary magdeline and the 
other mary arrive at the tomb,there is a rock in front of it,then there is a violent earthquake 
and an angel descends and rolls back the stone.in luke,when the women arrive at the 
tomb,the stone is already rolled back.

these are but a few contradictions,in prose form.

Copyright © chris bowen | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry |

Wicked Women

Wicked women, such fearsome things
speak gently, haunting,
holding men with dark and
painted eyes, wretched
whispering, blackened lashes.
Let us watch their craft, with a poison mastery they
win at last: cause the blissful men to blister.

Copyright © Lauren Johnson | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

sigh of sin ? (part - 1)

in this world of the limped nuptial 
i’ve appeared as a power-missile of the lac-dye 
that is used by the hindu women 
to paint the border of their feet 

the tooth-ache of some-one pumpkin 
that grows on the thatched roof of a hut 
has wringed spirally  
my mythological birth with corporate death 

managing and arranging  my thoughts 
on what I was in the past 
what I would be in the future 
or what is my dos at present  
the wonder-paintings of the altamira cave 
unfolds its wings beside my painful in-growing nail 

and in her own sky of miss marry  
my hands become so much condensed in every drops 
as if within that moping smog 
without any speech 
speaks the twinkle twinkle little star…

beside  that labour pain what awakes then
is the patronage of a one-horned idea 
along which while walking  without much preparation
i can enter into any e-mail 

though our love pulls a very long-face about itself 
and in the opinion of the married women 
the sigh of the sin ? of our love wants to cultivate 
mustered-seeds on the soil of the inhabitants 
of this human-life 
with a stick by which the monkeys are driven out 
what more can i say in lieu of 
a piece of red-salute written in green ink

if i say in the dawn of the 52-cards
i touch your face 
by the hands of a school-boy 
your calmness and earthly perfume 
make me stunned 

then in this field of sweat and war 
the explosion of logic and intellect 
of your top-floor 
seems more famous anchor than the milk 
that spilt over on the fire 

and more to say 
when daubing all over the body 
all taste of the path of joy 
enter into then fort of gold you can notice there 
when in some unknown moment 
my pajama dies socially 
by the bite of the snails and oysters 

to keep the heart of the break-kiln always move 
this form-less interactions are so well 
in the harvest-arrangement of the late-autumn
 we are all uttering the name of cherry-flower 
and begging shelter from the mango leaves 

Copyright © murari sinha | Year Posted 2010