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Prose Poetry Write Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Write

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Details | Prose Poetry |

Seasons and Imaginations

Wind so cold.
Fondles my face.
The tears from heaven.
I wonder if i wish
    to stop them
From numbness,
    to waking,
          then sensing.

The little voice in me says,
Wait, don't go.
Stay a little longer. I plead.
Sing for me today, rain.
With the gliding rhythm on my piano,
                                                  I'll play.
Chilly Wind, caress my bare skin 
     with the pure coldness that you bring.
     like it's my first time in the snow.
     the fire tree never fades in the picture.
The yellow sunkissed leaves, too.
What is it about Summer and Fall
    that I can't forget?
Memories. Sweet imaginations.

The chilly rain. The misty wind.
You are here. 
Freeze me with the sharp coldness you give.
Calm me. Maybe, comfort me.
And, if you leave
Will you visit me when summertime comes?
Before it gets too late
   And again I fold.

Copyright © Wendy Meyer | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |


The soft sounds of my hands in the air
Swift swooshing movement of words
Expressive fingers moving letters around
Stillness flowing sentences to paper
The intricate familiar patterns of language
Never perceived as impossible until 
Possibilities run out, until words stop
making sense inside. Until lips tongue
and brain fail to co-operate, then mouth
becomes meaningless, messy 

The soft sound of my hands in the air
Swift swooshing movement of words
Of colours painted by writing hands
Hands gesture music in the air, frail
and gentle, and ever so expressive
Drooping words of rain and raising
words of rainbow, of love and warmth
Twinkling words of night and dark music
It all paints pictures in a book where
It doesn't matter my mouth didn't speak.

Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

Close enough

Closer to the clouds 
Soaring through the soft misty flocks of vapour
Touching the overstretched never ending horizons
Closer to the clouds
Reaching for the elusive galaxy scattered with stars

Outside my window, birds perched on window panes
Breathing the hopes of life
Burying their worries, letting them go
Soaring away the pains of yesterday
The distance reassures me of the longer road I have
Waiting working of what might come
Relieving the old alleys
Streets that left me hanging, roaming 
Stranded with loneliness

Break from the fast pace of life
Dive into total surrender
Break from our shallow life filled with plans
The never ending ambitious dreams
Capturing each moment, not giving any a miss

The small sentiments
The simple notions
The innocent thoughts 
And the crazy bedlams
Thrive, we will.

Copyright © Eli Mahirah | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |


Sharon why do you come?
Sharon you were not my
Confidant nor my peer
Could you be some long
Ancestor ?
You are the only
One who has come,
More than one time.
Met you in this lifetime,
When you were here.
My spade partner
It would seem likely.
Family would look in..
But it's Okay, that it's you,
You're the only
One that has
Made it known.. that
Every goodbye
Ain't gone. One day
More will be revealed
As to the meaning
Of your communication;
As you seem the most unlikely
Too attach yourself to my soul station.
“Sharon, I think I now 
Know why have you come"

Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Ode to the Writer

Play you noted Lyricists! Let not your lyrics be missed! Your silence is the frequency, Enticed by a laced melody Condemned in a rhythmic spell Only time will really tell Your lyrical harmony Etched in life's symphony Oh, Hail! Or Hale! Kings of speech! May your words reign or rain on minds inpeach Let knowledge rule as you teach You are to blame for the popular fiction And the lost hip hop depiction Your vowel movement is the mission As they are turning to wrong station So arise oh sons of scribes! Let not fame be your weakening bribes The mystery is your story is still empty But the words to be written are plenty I plant thee in the soil of possibility Growing history in eternity Let the acclaimed awaiting your spark, put page to flame, Illuminating the shame where fiction is no longer fame Arise masters of word! The creators of a new world. Your potency is cryptic avalanche in dormant To awaken minds with your content With an earth shattering rumble you move earth with your stumble Tripping all over yourself to cause a rampage and turn a page marked in history That leads to the bread crumbs of destiny, displaying your self-mastery Oh again rise blood line of prophets! Be not sold out by profits. Your words intertwine the future with the past As ignorance over knowledge shall never be surpassed So your prophecies can be for the youth’s benefits And lost in the realm of the elder’s forfeit While bleeding your ink work, flooding the stage Flowing ears steadily from age to age I say rage warrior of the Pens! This is the age when ignorance ends. As wielders of the pen die by the pen are heard Cutting and stabbing the paper in furry blurred Let those pens bleed till society flood Cleansing it with its righteous blood To awaken other giants from their slumber Killing silence's winter into summer Where ignorance is not left to its own device Only your golden silence should be an adequate price

Copyright © siza sibiya | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

Poetry is the answer

What impels us so late at night 
to rise up and turn on the light 
to sit down and begin to write 
a poem if the feeling is right? 

For some the answer is simple enough. 
but others must crack a nut that is tough. 
It’s more than rhyme it's that and bigger stuff. 
A finished poem, a diamond no longer rough. 

There is much to be said of many things, 
of wording it right and the joy it brings, 
a quality tone just right when it sings, 
when it ends it's as true as it begins. 

What impels us so late at night 
to rise up and turn on the light 
to sit down and begin to write 
a poem if the feeling is right? 

An un-crafted word, just like a fetter. 
Un practiced in words, we are the debtor.
And for proof, view any written letter. 
Poems fill a need to say it better. 

thanks for the recomendations Reason A. Poteet 
edited by Monty Newman on 11/25/2010

Copyright © Monty Newman | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry |

Pleasure in Possibilities

Writing my prose,
Sometimes I try poesy,
another pleasure.
Untrained. Unskilled.
But, what a joy!
to freedom,
my thoughts I find.
And so, as day by weeks
would turn into a lifetime, could be
the possibilities concocted by gods
may be.

Copyright © Wendy Meyer | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Rambling of a Faith Poet

Sometimes it is hard to know what to write or when to write when you have just about every
thought possible flowing through your head. I wonder, "Should I please the public with
how "poetic" I am or should I please You? I know what the answer is but at times I'm 
worried about being liked or whether people get me. Is my belief in Your Son too far
above their heads or will they get it? Should I even worry about public opinion? Of
course I know as a follower of Christ, sharing my testimony and telling them about the
Lord is what I'm supposed to do. On the other hand, have I become to preachy and
dull? Am I shoving my beliefs down their throats? Then I realize, didn't Jesus make
himself of no reputation? Everybody thought that He was weird, blasphemous and not
qualified to tell them anything when it came to how they were living. I'm only here to do
what He wants me to do, nothing more, nothing less. If I do my part, the right people will
hear it, love it and appreciate it. All I should do, is write the word and leave all my
"rambling worries" to Him.

Copyright © Brandee Augustus | Year Posted 2009

Details | Prose Poetry |



Our family was raised,
Knowing and loving God.
The many things about Him,
We never thought it odd.

God referred to Wisdom,
In Proverbs as "She".
Blessed is the one who finds it,
A promise to you and me.

Now Solomon was selected,
As Wisdom's special man.
His biblical understanding,
Measureless as the sand.

Common sense we re told,
Leads one to be wise.
Perhaps in an uncommon degree,
Does wisdom come in a different size?

God grants men wisdom,
It is yours for free.
One must work for this treasure,
Pick the fruit from the tree.

All the knowledge of ages past,
If printed in a book.
Are condensed in The Bible,
Why not take a look.

An active life,
Sows wisdom's seed.
Be ready for the harvest,
It is valuable indeed.

I have a special message,
Describing wisdom just for you.
First, know what is false,
Then know what is true.


Copyright © Raymond Morgan | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |



Few will probably read the dripping words.
Few will probably see the wet images they convey
or hear the flowing songs they sing.
Even fewer will probably experience the misty senses they conjure.

It's not
that the senses
of the world are dead;
so  much alive are they;
yet her emotions have lone gone to graves:
Shadows of resurrection looming
in the setting of each day's fading sun.

So come
ye painters of the word;
you who dare:
let us sing our songs.
You who care:
let us wail and scream out loud.
You who care:
let our laughter bellow freely.
You who love:
Come soar into infinity
with the brave doves of peace.

Now and forever more is the word.
And we poets must pen its creative spirits:
May our hearts forever bleed upon the canvases of time!

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |


 There is a personal testimony and everyone's focus is on the group and on the 
self and not on JESUS where it was supposed to be the reason eye won't go to 
fellowship with rich working Christians meeting at a SUNDAY SUPPER to drive to 
a pizza place where everyone pays something for the food even if they share it the 
cost is still beyond the pocketbook of yew. The added price of fellowship with 
world is loss of spirit functions eye am not suggesting we have meetings in the 
desert with the hedgehogs but there could be a meeting place for all the 
Christians like the fish doors of the early days of meetings they were in and out 
so furtive searching alleyways for soldiers avoiding arrests and fighting and 
bringing lots of food in the bags of fishes and the loaves of breads in pockets of 
the tunaes fishes smile eye could just not resist this in almost every Church 
there is a Kitchen and in some of them is love the people make the soup for the 
homeless and the court appointed prisoners and even important people come. 
Hang a fish upon the door of every kitchen in the nation make a place with tables 
where the poor can come in love do not forget the love the soup is  nice but even 
slabs of raw meat are not enough with hate. 
Eye could not write a word on yesterday the things that eye had wanted to write 
left on the flight of lost ideas and night came again without a thought and then the 
day came back this fable was born and eye decided to try religion again. The 
focus of a lot of people is the congregation the error being life is not a middle 
class house with people making money in a paper plate of life some people 
need a cup of soup just to survive please open up your love first open up your 
hearts then open all them kitchen cupboards up. There is another thing that eye 
must say to all the bible thumpers not yet in the grave what does it matter what 
the date and day of this my own salvation come the day of JESUS was 33 AD the 
date that GOD was saving me. 

Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2008

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Poet

I have gazed long at the turbulent
  while piled high cloud masses
I have watched the millions of stars at night
  the damp fog has come and surrounded me
and the land is silent
  the fresh rain has laved my face
while the wind blew warmly.

I receive no message from these for humankind
  but hear only their message to me;
for they awaken the wonder that is in me
  in addition, the yeaning that is the depth of my soul.

They do not tell me to scatter my words
  through the world like seeds
rather, they say, Behold! be of us 
  and wing out beyond the world forever
and in my soul the deep yearning pleads for the
  fulfillment of its' aching desire
to go with the sun, moon and the stars
  and seek with them the answer to eternity.

But still the clouds, ebon faced, mass against
  the fiery red rays of the setting sun
the stars, far distant, in space, still glitter
  brightly in the patterns
the fog, white by day, grey by night
  moves yet noiselessly on, giving intimacy
to near things, and strangeness to
  those looming on the edge of vision
the rain falls yet too, cleansing and releasing
  the perfume of the wet earth.

So I write
  letting the words of my unrest
go freely where they would
  for each word is deflection
from the longing within me
  of all the voices I must heed and may not.

However, I cannot write in the dark
  I cannot write as I stand on the hill gazing
yet the yearning is there most of all
  therefore! I say aloud, convincingly
"It is only lovely"
  to wander on through the night and day
and the years. 

Copyright © Melody Coster | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry |

Hot Summer

Over writing, reading is a joy
I saw a mirage that I thought
Was a water!  Summer time.

Copyright © Abdullah Alhemaidy | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

to The Public

Not really a poem, but the truth of my being.

To the Public
June 28, 2011

When I write the words just flow. I get an inspiration or a thought and have to write it down. 
Why, I do not know.  They just flow and all follow a story.  I write my innermost thoughts with 
the deepest passion imaginable and all are TRUE life experiences which have occurred in my life. 
I am diagnosed Severe Bipolar Disorder and disabled and draw SSDI. I no longer have to work 
from over 40 yrs in Maintenance and 2 degrees in Electronics and Electrical maintenance. I do 
draw disability now for over 2 yrs time and depression is a daily bout which I face every day, 
but try to be positive. The medicine I take is for my head and helps with mood swings and 
depression. As to date, I cannot read many of my works as I Bawl like a baby at most of 
them.  I remember when and how I felt when I wrote them.  But all of them follow a story to 
the end.  I cannot recite a single one because once written they are gone, otherwise they eat 
my Brain.  I am crying now as I write this and divulge my deepest thoughts and experiences of 
my life. I feel better now that it is gone from my head folks.  When a situation arises, I just 
know which ones will deserve recognition to be told.  I suffer from arthritis on my left side, my 
hands hurt all the time, and I practice herbal medicine for the pain.  I create my own remedies 
from my herbologist named Daryl Collins here in Okmulgee, he gives me the herbs and I am 
the guinea pig first and foremost for the experience.  Anyone else who suffers from this can 
contact me at trenton6896@yahoo.com.  I am willing to tell you the recipe for my
Creations.  I hope all appreciate this testimony of mine.  All I say is true to fact.
							William Lewis Moore
							June 28, 2011

Copyright © William Moore | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Power To Write

If I don't write 
I wouldn't exist, 
so I put my words 
in action. 

I ran and opened the 
French doors 
and for an instant, 
I imagined I could hear 
the church bells ringing 
tolling beneath the surface 
of the wild Ocean. 

A single fisherman stood 
waist deep with his rod 
trying to catch a fish 
for his lunch, only to be 
surrounded by the cold 
gusty wind blowing enough 
to freeze the church bells 
from continuing to toll loud 
enough for me to hear them. 

Suddenly they stopped 
when I felt the air was 
crisp and salty 
through that late afternoon, 
time for the sun 
of that same morning 
going down, 
as the electric lights. 

For some reason which 
I could not reveal to myself 
why I became unhappy, 
or maybe insecure, 
tired, pale, maybe unselfish 
or unsympathetic with myself, 
all those feelings ran 
through my whole existence 
as I could not verify 
my thinking. 
I looked rough for once in 
my past years. 

Suddenly the dangerous 
calm was gone. 
It had been replaced 
by the white clouds 
that reminded me 
of my wedding dress, 
as a shadow hidden 
behind me, in me, 
in front of me running 
away from my permanently 
changed soul. 

After sitting for hours I felt 
maddened by thirst, 
it hurt badly as I remained 
in isolation, dazed, blinded, 
deafened, having no liquid, 
or food for hours. 

OH! How badly I needed 
to forget about my soul, 
feeling like a burning bush 
suffering for so many years 
in secret. 

Growing up I mastered 
into adolescence 
an obsessive image, 
a place that can seem to me 
somehow an extension 
of myself. 
My children. 


Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

An Abyss

All by myself,
I kept thinking,
Who is there for me?
The long wait
For that someone,
To share my life with,
Who will be besides me, 
Till I breathe my last…
Hand in hand,
To explore the wonders of life
But as always,
Love was elusive,
For me

Many of my friends
Found their soul mate,
But I didn’t
Many a times, 
I have questioned myself
Is it me?
Where did I go wrong?
So many times,
I questioned God,

God, what kind of test is this?
What kind of game are you playing with me?
What lessons are you trying to teach me?
I really don’t understand…

My eyes welled up,
Even while I was writing this,
But then, for a moment, I forgot 
You are blind and deaf,
A prejudiced God,
Some you favor,
While others you don’t
Some you give,
While others you don’t
Why do you discriminate?
Must not you be fair and just?
What criterion do you follow?
In making your judgments… 

How undue?
Justice seems to be an illusion,
In this world of yours…

Millions pray to you for strength,
They say to have faith in you,
How do I have faith?
When you can’t sense my pain?
That I am going through…
And I understand,
That I am in queue’
Millions before me,
Millions after me…

And it is sad that you are taking me
To a point where you want me to break down,
Fall at your feet 
And beg for peace and happiness,
In these hours of darkness…

What kind of father are you?
Who wants his daughter to cry?
To fall at his feet for mercy,
‘Our father, in heaven,
Holy be your name,
Your kingdom come,
Your will be done…
Forgive us sinners’
That’s what you taught us trillions
To say, each day
In our prayers…

And I am no sinner,
Why make me one,
I just felt that you are 
Plain selfish…
I am not ending these lines,
As my thoughts
Are like a bottomless abyss
That ceases to end…

Copyright © Vinaya Joseph | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |



It is a myth that people can be objective in their opinions.
People focus on qualities in others that they themselves have.
A kind person sees only kindness in others,
A mean person sees the meanness in others,
A kind person does not focus on the meanness of others.
This holds true for poetry fans, like me, like you:
Some SOUPER  who talks about “the gritty, sharp, philosophical feel that you create”
Or who uses an expression like “ slitting the poetic wrists of a word weaver” 
Is indeed such a person, such a poet.
When a speaker assesses another as “an architect of words”
Who  can have you “reeling  with  sumptuous dialogue…applause!”
Then it seems to me that the speaker is in reality such a  person.
Some guy can say “this may be brushed with light tones
But the sentiment is friggingly deep...”
And some gal may offer “bewitched am I with this exquisite expo on a bloom”,
And in both cases they are the true poet;  and moreover,
If someone is kind enough to like a piece of verse and to say so,
It is an act of highly personal significance for the poet who writes, 
For poets almost always write from the heart about their inner world, 
Entered only by invitation  to special people.  The poem is the invitation: 
Written so that  only those who understand will respond. 
Poetry is a foreign language to most people, 
To whom  reading it is like playing Beethoven* with mittens on,   
Or drinking French wine*  with a coca-cola chaser:
The true inner effect is completely absent.    
Write to other poets often,  for when we tell another of our admiration, 
It reveals our own self in plain words.



*Beethoven    =  deaf old guy who wrote tunes.  
  He and I have much in common,  except  I  don’t   write tunes.

*French wine   =  the finest  in the world – as claimed by the French.

Copyright © Sidney Beck | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright © Donald Eissler | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

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 |

I Write

I Write because I write 
Knowing some words
The audience may not like
All because I belong to Christ 
And data all right
You not feel  what I write 
Where I put my 
T's or my O's
Even if I might just write 
As long as I have eternal life 
The Father of lies
Will always sends someone 
To say,"What you wrote 
Ain't right!"
But if the Holy Spirit 
Said to...

Copyright © Akilah Babb | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

I could write a poem about you

I could write a poem about you. 
It's true. 

But a poem would only make you love me 
more than you know how to. 

I could write a poem about your eyes. 
They're blue.

I could tell the world you make my day all day long. 
Nights, too. 

I could tell the world all about you. 
The world would share my view. 

I could say that your days live inside
my heart. They do. 

I could write a poem about you. 
It would be true. Would you?

r ~ 4/28/14

Copyright © Rick Richardson | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

Prose Mine Prys

‘At play with words’

Cork thine eyes 
Cloaking lucent verbose halls 
Surely binding shutting tight 

Cork thine eyes 
Clutching goblet sipping falls 
Drunk seduction bending sight 

Prose mine prys 
Gather up my scrolling drawls 
Paging through the spite 

Prose mine prys 
Splitting metaphors with mauls 
Swindle word codle the blight 

This poem explained

Shut your eyes 
Shade your bright and wordy thoughts 
Absolutely shut off your mind 

Shut your eyes 
Drink from the fountain of lies of the rich 
Allow yourself to be seduced and become blind 

My ordinary words chip away 
Read what I have written 
They are memorable moments of contempt 

My ordinary words chip away 
I chop up what I write with metaphors 
The negative meanings of what I write deceives with tenderness


Copyright © T.R. Sevrens | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry |


She perceived it as light at first sight, like the morning was made

to rescue her from the perennial, sleepless nights, and like when

she was frozen down a pitch black hole and squinted at the sliver of 

a sunbeam;

and then she said he wore white,

exactly looking like an angel,

for a short moment that seemed to last, her life depended on just

staring at him

She believed she'd already seen him but wished they'd met before

She saw a new scene of an instant memory

Her heart recalls it was the beginning, but her soul knew

it was returning to something-

something that's always been with her time

Copyright © Nicola An | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

~ Write ~

. ..... ........ .......... ............ ............. ............ ........... ......... ....... ...... ..... .... ... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . Poetry- is-the-spirit- of-liberty, harmony- of the-heart. Picked-up and-carried- along-by- the-hands- of the-wind, or if-you will- as the-voice- of-this ink- being- spilled-onto-the- innocence-of this- parchments' humble- task. The search for- the proof of-the truth- of-God's-gentle- culmination- of-tender-reasoning. Origin-of-soulful-feeling. Like-removing-the-sharp- pain-of-the bloody-glass- shards-bludgeoned-under- your-foot. The-perfect- beauty regret-of-the- opportunity-as-such, time-realized-but- wasted. Poetry-is- the open provision- expression discernment, expansion, patient-journey- of-acceptance-of this life's- determined gracious-gift of- union. Believing-I-am-but as-ash, no-greater-nor-less-than-anyone/ thing-other-than the-challenge-of- my-quill-in this-wondrous-world-in- any-respect. This-is-where and-when- I-find-out-just-how-much-through-Him- so-illustriously, I'm perfected. So I-wonder- now-why-it-is, we-all don't-sit down-maybe- sometime, hey-maybe-more-than-one-time, and write ... ? Author notes God bless you. ~ James ~ I chose "Life in Short" I believe that the poem I chose to exemplify it is one that will I hope further expand and do it justice. Thank you for allowing my entry.

Copyright © James Long | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry |

if He was you

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Previous - Next"If He was you..."
Gently the wind blows ‘cross the faces
Of nations and lands of indistinct races
As the wind whips the flags, the crags of the arrogant faces
And the elitist who wear these blindest disgraces

The proud and the few, who publish what’s “true”, amid assumptions that flue
And echo in caverns of morals and right, being so wrong, ‘tis so obviously true
The patterns of fascists reflect in their you
As they contrive to survive their destruction so due

“We the people…”

in order to form a more perfect union, do wander
amid thoughts and imagines we meaningless wonder
what to think, and, finding thoughts, we pause, ponder clause
and make with logics sharp claws

"we the people..."

have thoughts, some not nice, some epicly so, in nature
and submit them all to our hearts legislature
if not just a seconds reflections of others
having no application to me or my brothers
then, to debate, or not, such is the right
of those who would not blindly blight

"We the people..."

the heart is the judge, a debate may take place
would i hurt, those i love, those who love, those who try
would i harm those who mean well, those i never can tell, just in case
would i fly, in formations with eagles, or contrive to lie

with the hogs

if the hogs would lie with me...

and if i
or even, i submit, if you

remember that "flue"?

what is it?


"We the people..."


"who are, for all the money in the world...
Shadrach, Meshack, and Abednego?"
and, if you had a God, or if you do, what would He want, or, if He was you...

Copyright © solomon storm | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry |

Memories and Pens

This pen is cracked and broken but luckily it still writes.

The ink is almost at an end
 low, down in the point, barely visible. 
Did you ever use a pen to its very end
 from start to finish, the very same pen?


Pens are so disposable
 unlike thoughts,
 unlike feelings,
 unlike emotions.

Memories are like pens holding our pasts
 full, clear  and thick in the beginning, 
 then draining,  fading with the years,
 then skipping,  missing spots with overwriting. 

The important things though tend to last
 held fast, like permanent ink
 kept safe, recorded,
 written in our hearts.

Copyright © DM Babbit | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

I could write a poem about myself

I could write a poem about myself. 
I could write a poem.
I could write.
I could.

r ~ 4/28/14

Copyright © Rick Richardson | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

Divinity - Part One

"Yes, I tell you as I can still dream every day.. I dream of Christmas."

"Clouds lay back as they rise, and fall puff up and billow all in illustrious efforts to greet the Sun.. and as I lay back I admire them and as I see their rising as they grow fuller in the distance they puff up higher and higher above the willows. As a light breeze picks up the leaves on the trees as they sway together in their dance; and so I lay out my hand catch a tumbling leaf by chance."

"Knowing nothing of Love Grace or Mercy, Peace. The leaf now represents for me my gift, of these greater things I give and so I say my life now all of it.. is all but nothing, or it is a joyous opportunity."

Tender tales tall tell timely in earnest the fervency.. Divinity relevancy, reality of the story." - "Stars shine bright cast their welcome liberally.. ."" - 

"Sheen's of glassy rays of overt light sparkle freely in their delight." - 
"Under the Moon laughter.. fills the night." "Swallows in their innocence.. wade about puff up full and billow.. ." - 

"Shadow's in their whimsy way.. cast their welcoming in the warming." - "As the Weeping Tree weeps tears full as cool pool Shallows of Crystal 
Rock and Alabaster Sands promote their gentle fondness upon the pond floor."" - 

"Kindred the Swallows in their Promise, Beauty Honesty.. in the Moonlight they are one with Love." - "And running Felicitous.. touched by the union follows closely the Dove.. ."" - 

"Divinity has found a home."" 

Copyright © James Long | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

Deliver My Soul

Deliver My Soul

Deliver my soul 
From the pain of each day;
Just come and love me
In a very special way.

Daily I think of you
I really care so much;
Daily I long to feel
Your very special touch.

MY days are getting shorter
The time on earth will past
An my heart will never feel the love
That I desire from you at last.

I know the outside displays
A sight that many can’t stand;
But yet there’s a heart inside
That desire to be loved by a special man.

I write words of my emotions
I write words I just want to share;
And daily I often Pray
That one day you will really care.

Copyright © Sheryl Torrence | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |

As I write

As I write
I think deeply as I write, even though some of the my characters may be shallow
I write with love, even though the personnages portayed may be hateful
I write joyfully even if the subject matter may be tainted with sadness
I write with great hope for the future even though, the souls in my stories
May live in an increasingly cruel and hopeless  world
As I write, my pen is my needle and the words are the thread
With which I stitch together pieces of humanity
Which, patched up, will make our lives livable
Less hateful, less scornful, less insufferable
As I write, I attempt to keep my language clean even when our environs are foul
I write with humilty as I describe a place where arrogance abounds
I hope that my words will revive dreams that have been put on hold
I pray that they will be the currency used to pay the ransoms of souls
That have been sold, warm the hearts that have gone cold, fill the pockets
of the poor with gold (and silver)
Drop nuggets of wisdom in the minds of those who seek to learn
Fill the bellies of the famished so for sustenance, they cease to yearn
Bring comfort to those who are grieving
Calmness to those who are seething with anger
© Terence Msuku 2015

Copyright © Terence Msuku | Year Posted 2016