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Best Prose Poems

Below are the all-time best Prose poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of prose poems written by PoetrySoup members

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Poems are below...


New Prose Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Prose poems are below this new poems list.

Quietly Hushed by Baskaran, Kaaviya
LOVE ALWAYS WINS by curtis futch jr, kurtis scott aka
I LOVE MY KIDS TOO by curtis futch jr, kurtis scott aka
Until I opened up by Amenumey, Sharon
Naivete by Archer, Vanessa
Math Problems by Dillenbeck, Gerald
Who's They by johnson, curtis
To The Sable Side of an Iago-American Mirror by lowe, millard
Drops like dew from sky by nair, sadashivan
Father by SHARMA, RUCHITA

View all new Prose Poems

The Best Prose Poems

 
Details | Prose Poem | Create an image from this poem.

I Think Of You - An Alternative Universe - 6


From childhood it was a world of two...you and I...
I leaned lightly, leisurely against your heart and you let me in.

We were five I use to draw you rose scented flowers
using an ordinary led pencil. Youth! The world was ours.

Seven!  I know that was the first time I saw you blush.
I whispered a song for you so no one else would hear.

Oh when we were nine! The potato sack race.  I entered with Lisa.
 You gave me that look. Oh that look!  And you  left without a word.

At eleven years old I had my "magic wink". "A Magic Wink" you'd
say sarcastically.  How it made you giggle to make fun of it.

It was at thirteen we decided to burn the gym floor with our moves.
Our first dance.  You stole my breath. Emptied the room of oxygen.

Fifteen...we started running and my God we ran and ran...
our shoe prints dug into the concrete. It was then I knew. Forever.

Then suddenly at seventeen in the slip of time you left, dissapeared.
Stunned! I slept through the next two years even in the full light of day.

At nineteen I swam an endless pool but even the chlorine couldn't
clear your scent from my memory as my spirit filled out hard as steel.

Was it on my twenty first birthday you showed up? You showed up
 tried to hug me hello. Silent! Cold! I turned and walked away.

Was I still twenty one when I apologized for that day. When you asked 
for an explanation. I recited false words but we both knew. Hurt for hurt.

Then at twenty five we still had issues to work out. I asked you bluntly 
why you cut me loose in the prime of our youth. You my first and only.

I asked the question that burned in my gut. Without words your eyes spoke. 
You were still in love with me. There was only me. I your first and only.

Finally our lips met to never part again. Left to wonder why, I accept our 
lives without an answer. My love was that. Why would I have let you go?

Older than old now. One last time you leave. Death makes this choice. 
Alone again I remember how I never knew why once you left.

Not everything  is explained or understood,
like music by a one arm man playing a violin.

I sport my blank stare. Naked is the body of life.
Mystery sings blind the song of the lark!

and I...

i think of you.



March 29 2015
Armand






Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poem | Create an image from this poem.

I DANCE

Listen to poem:
Voice: Jason Williams *** I danced! Whirling air around me, particles of sundust in tornadoes and hurricanes following me in awe I danced. Each night I wake and feel my legs The ones that once carried me and jumped so high The ones that took me away from a world I didn't want to be in Creating a dream, I danced. The music colouring a world with brushes and pencils With moves and muscle, practice and pirouette A world I thought no one could take away I danced. When my eyes are closed I dance My mind paints my body whole and healed A unicorn, a world of faeries, a galloping horse A world of dreams, veiled and away from hurt I live again I live I don't dance anymore But I write. My words, my lines, they carry me now My legs are useless, my arms and emotions Carry me So.... I dance again, in words I dance. *** 1st Place in contest: Practiced Passion Sponsor: Frank Herrera November 9, 2016


Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poem | Create an image from this poem.

She read me Dr Seuss

6:35 A.M.

Sunrise against my neck
that no cheap tan booth could ever match.

I ring the doorbell in anticipation of joy’s injection.

I needed it.

Because I left my cell phone in the car,
as I didn’t want to hear any chimed email
or text annoyances.

And the car just got cleaned,
only for the birds to have their way
on its waxy shine.

Bastards!

Time to grab the flamethrower from my trunk!

But, before I could scream in Braveheart declaration,
there she was.

Her 6 yr old smile,
made of 1/4 inch gaps between innocence enamel,
captured me like no other could.

“Tio”, she preached in angelica sonata.

As she held me,
held me,
with puppy love warmth.

Even the rainbows fell to its knees.

She took off my jacket with ferret-like perkiness and
asked me to sit on the floor with her.

But, not before offering to toast me some Eggo waffles
with a big glass of Ovaltine…
…in her Little Mermaid glass,
proudly made in North Korea.

It even had the dictator’s initials and a bucktooth smiley face stamp, signed in glitter
that said:
“Kid-safe”.

Thank God I just took my online course in Child Safety.
I was ready!

As I sip on Little Mermaid’s curves,
shaped in plastic, swirly straw weirdness,
a sound blasts off from a Barbie radio.

My 2 yr old angel galloped into this heart of mine,
with Tinnitus piercing scream & laughter,
tackling me in Incredible Hulk lunge.

“Hi Tio”, she whispered, before she hopped back upstairs, 
Ninja Turtle-style,
laughing maniacally with rapid head tilts, left to right to left.

Boys will fear her. 
And I couldn’t be more proud.

After two moments of silence, 
my 6 yr old angel places her Dr. Seuss book on my lap,
as she sits in front of me.

“I can r-r-read
with my eye-s
shut.”

She carefully completed the sentence,
as my eyes instantly fill with leaky pride
and an ingrained smile.

10 minutes later, she shut her book and asked me how she did.
“I am so proud of you my angel.”
“You have come so far.”

I had to hold back tears because I didn’t want to throw her off.
Yet I think she knew,
because she kept her head down and smiled with gentle starburst.

Mission accomplished.

And it was then where I heard her say,
“Those who matter don’t mind,
those who mind don’t matter.”

But she was quiet, looking at me with tilted head & smile.

For it was my inner child, 
speaking
clear.

© Drake J. Eszes


Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Best Man

It has been 9 months since your sudden disappearance.

That Hallowed night when your 5’11” nerd aura
Handed me my early birthday gift
A cold shoulder wrapped in a velvet bow
Made in Sri Lanka, sold exclusively at the Dollar Store

That was your appraised value.

But, today, revival’s whisper enters my gently waxed earlobes.

Candy coated revelations
For my allergic blood

“I said yes!”, as she flashed Cracker Jack ring
Filled with Monopoly dollar signs and “Go directly to Jail” Chance cards

I almost applauded, my hands sarcastically never connected
While my eyeballs rolled in epileptic banter

We scream in misguided nerd joy 
As if we witnessed Monty Python & Darth Vader having a make-out session

Sudden urges to watch movies about Traveling Pants & Sisterhood
And PSing my I Love You
While we eat Dark Chocolate Klondike bars and Chipwich Ice Cream Cookies
My ovaries were bursting with INSANITY’S JOY!

But, WAIT, I quickly realized I didn’t have such parts!

It was then, reality crashed
As if Spider Man ran out of web during mid-air leap

My essence now halts at crossroads’ throat.

To my left, “celebration”
To my right, “other”

I chose to be a human this night.

Current time- 9:15pm
Current location- Reception Hall

A 5 course meal,
Including dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets
Smiley face French fries
And 3 glasses of Tang
Surrounded my space on the dinner table

Heavenly echoes of forks & glass,
Ringing in ignorant unison,
Give birth to Tinnitus in my drums

In their 9 months of togetherness,
They kiss with forcible ease,
Frogs refusing to show their true form

It is then, ignoring listless stares from guests,
I stood up holding my half-empty Tang glass
Which MIGHT have contained a smidge of Grey Goose

At the TOP of my LUNGS,
I whispered.

“Friend, I should be so proud of you. I would. I could. You never responded to my open-hearted palm. You left my vulnerabilities dangling at half-mast, as if I lost our final game of Hang Man. But, TONIGHT, it is I & this delicious Dinosaur nugget that will HAVE a final say! You are impeccably flawed, like I. But, I still wanted you to be a part of my tomorrows. Yet, you turned me into a muted yesterday. So, I will wish congratulations on your new slav…um, husband, Pouring this glass of yummy Tang onto this stapled dance floor in a straight line Each drop will be a symbol of how many tears he will shed, before that line is crossed.”
As silence slapped each other in its face Across candle flame blanketed, marble dance hall, With children pointing & laughing hysterically, “Security” enters the room As I hold hands with Cuban female rent-a-cop, her head warming my shoulder, “Thank you for these 9 months. For now, I have given birth to a new me. The Best Man that you will never hold again.” ©Drake J. Eszes


Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2013

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Simple Words For Simple People

If I had a pretentious brain which acts faster than my heart Maybe then,I would abhore this soul which spreads freely through each verse Maybe then I would impress you with my intellectual grammar and sophisticated words I would scrutunize each and every coma dot and exclamationmark believing I know best But I would never let that happen I'd rather stay at bay Writing firstly with my mind and not my heart leads only to an asylium within the being of myself Poetry is my voice,my shadow The sacred shrine of great escape Each stored emotion processed within a yesterday Poetry is the inner of my existence breathing softly,bleeding deeply exploding in death,love passion and romance In every verse a whisper a thought that I would scribe of a silent cry expressed Maybe in a tomorrow you might pass by me Tread your footstep on my ink and spit saliva in my face But maybe in a today a broken -hearted fool stops by to find comfort in my world Maybe a prisoner,a tramp an insane soul or outcast would pick these scattered scribbles and gather them as whole Maybe through each criss-crossed puzzle finds a narrow passage which leads his faith to home Maybe a little child whose blissful giggles depends on little words would turn the dusty pages of silly rhymes I penned Rhymes which know the moons stars,faries,and the magic land Rhymes which know each fantasy and how to be a friend And maybe He would smile Maybe He would laugh Maybe He would dream Maybe He would grow up to write the most eloquent sonnet there has ever been Or maybe He would grow up to write simple words just like me about daises or dandelions and expressions to be free


Copyright © Charmaine Chircop | Year Posted 2014

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Why must I Cry

   I come to the garden along, while the dew is still fresh
on the meadows. Early in the morning do the bird's sing
praises of roses and peddles.  I cry, because there is no
refuge finally from the pain.  
    Yet long ago, a child was born, to become king, and yes
there is hope, just for believing in his name. Where is this King!
when I'm hurting and alone? He's just a prayer away, don't give
up, for he's Alpha and Omega, which means, just be strong!.
So they sent me to a place, to turn my life around. I cry, be-
cause, I am somebody no longer am I bound.
     Now I know that Jesus is my refuge and no more drugs is
there for I. Thank you Lord, for the method, that's "Why Must
I Cry".


Copyright © John Streeter | Year Posted 2009

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Super Soupers

It was a rainy day so I flipped through a stack of comics
My Amazing Poet series
Finally I picked the fabulous Five
I liked the picture on the front
Yanny the Zen Master with long black hair
Becca the Creative and Beautiful with her mythical pen
One of my favorites sultry Eileen known as the Emotionator
Anne the Philosopher was right there beside Eileen with her magical smile
Then to round out this team was Vicky Victorious calling from the wilderness 
In this edition they were battling the Poet Destroyer and Joker Jack
who had kidnapped Newbie Timothy Hicks
As I read their words I was in awe of my Heros
They made me cry
They brought me to new worlds
Filled with adventures
Sexy had new meaning
Tears became diamonds
Winds swirled inside my head
All the emotions of the rainbow
I longed to write with such clarity and strength
I tried to flex my poetic Muscles
Worked out every day
Then on the back of the comic
A scrawny poet sat on a beach
Beside the girl of his dreams
He is writing for her when along comes a muscular poet
The big poet kicks metaphorical sand in his face
The the scrawny poets girl is whisked away
Underneath it says
Are you tired of having Metaphorical sand kicked in your face?
Are other Poets getting the girl?
All that can change
Join the Andrea Dietrich School of Creative Poetry
She will have you writing like The Fabulous Five
You will never be afraid to flex those poetic muscles again
So I cut out the back page and sent my five dollars
The address is PO Box 88888 Inspiration California 
Now all I can do is wait
What will the future Hold?


Note there are many Poets here who would appear in my vast Amazing poet series.
Poet Destroyer and Joker Jack are not Evil nemeses they were chosen for the roll
because of their names( also I love their work.) I hope you enjoyed my little tale.
Some of the younger poets may not be familiar with the Charles Atlas ads that used
to be on the back of comics, the rest of you I am sure will get the joke.



Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2013

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THE MISSIONARY AND THE BUM



There once was a bum. He 
was the neighborhood drunk. 
He had a unkempt demeanor. 
His salt and pepper hair had not 
been washed in years.The 
clothes he wore were  ragged.
His shirt had giant holes in them.
He looked twice his age. In his 
drunken state he cursed every-
one that came his way.His smell 
was so horrible you might as well
say he showered in whiskey.That 
didn't bother this young missionary 
who lived nearby.Every day she would 
bring the old bum food and clothing.
She would offer him shelter as well.
"Hi sir . How are you today?"
"Why don't you just leave me alone. 
Can't you see I don't want to be 
bothered."he stated with a slur.
"Sir I'm going to leave your food and 
your clothing right here". As she said 
those words she bent down and placed 
his things on the ground.This was their
routine for well over a year.But on this
in particular day the ole drunk appear-
ed to be coherent. He was sober.As 
the young missionary approached him
she said, "Hi Sir. How are you today?"
"I'm fine ma'am. How are you?"
"I'm well Sir. Are you hungry today?"
I brought you some food and water
and some clothes and shoes."He 
shook his head no.
"Ma'am  I don't want anything.How-
ever I do appreciate it so. I'm going
home today."
His statement took her by surprise.
"Sir I didn't even know you had a 
home."
"Ma'am I do indeed have a home. 
I'm homeless by choice. I want you
to know your kindness will not go 
unnoticed."
She knew it wasn't right to judge but 
she thought to herself he has gone 
insane.
" Miss I stopped believing in God a
long time ago but your loving kind-
ness showed me God today."  
"Okay Sir.I'm going to leave these
things and I will see you later.How-
ever the next day the old bum was 
not in his usual spot. And sad-
ness overwhelmed her spirit. That 
old bum had become a big part of
her life. She grew to love him very
much. As the days went by she con-
tinued to look for him and he wasn't 
there. It was as though he dropped
off the face of the earth.Today was 
a beautiful day and she was at the
corner,  in the spot where the bum 
sat.Deep in her thoughts as she be-
gan to walk she nearly bumped into 
someone. As she was about to speak 
she saw this well groomed middle
aged man with dashing good looks.
" Hi Ma'am. How are you?" She recog-
nized the handsome stranger's voice 
instantly.
"Sir is that you?"  She asked just to
 make sure her mind wasn't playing 
tricks on her.
"Yes Ma'am it is me. I just came by
 to formally thank you for all of the
 kindness you showed to me. I was in
raggedy clothes and never once did
you show disgust. You see I am a 
millionaire that had lost his way. You 
see my wife of nearly thirty years got 
ill and passed away. In that moment I 
lost my mind because my home didn't
exist anymore."
As he finished telling his story little 
tears began to fall from her eyes.
Through small sobs she said,
 " I'm sorry for your loss. I will con-
tinue to pray to God on your behalf."
" Ma'am your prayers is why I stand 
here today.If God had not sent you 
my way I would probably still be lost. 
Please don't cry for me I will be okay". 
He reached in his pocket and pulled
out an old business card and handed
it to her.
"Take my card. Feel free to call me any-
time. All that  I have now belongs to you. 
Do you remember that day when I told
you that your loving kindness would not
go unnoticed?"
As he said those final words he turned
and left, leaving the young missionary 
dumbfounded.


 

10-29-16
Alexis Y


Copyright © Alexis Y. | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poem | Create an image from this poem.

TO DARREN - SOME STARS SHINE BRIGHTER

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


Copyright © Claudia Polydoro | Year Posted 2017

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Uplifting

I flew over Bryce Canyon my wings fully spread in a gentle glide as I marveled at the view below. It wasn't the first time but it always felt like it. I flapped my wings to ascend even further and consume even more of the landscape. The weather chiseled rock that always reminded me of sandcastles children sculpted at the seashore. I loved the fragrance of the pine trees that neatly grew amongst the rocks and the white and golden blend of colors that jutted here and there against an ever changing sky. I suppose if they could see me - humans would gasp at the sight of an Angel and me well I still gasp at all that God created for the pleasure of mankind.
22~12~2014 With Love Maurice Yvonne


Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2014

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Lucila

So I walked into my local supermarket
to buy my weekly shipment of Kit Kat bars,
Cinnamon Toast Crunch,
and Ovaltine powder mix.

As I shake off the snow on my fake Timberland boots,
my skin,
coated in frozen animation,
thaws into warmth’s teardrops from
the supermarket’s 75 degree vents.

This moist sense of happiness was quickly interrupted
when I heard Wilson Phillips, “Hold On”
over the PA system.

Thankfully, the cutlery isle was just to my left. 
So, now, I had plans!

But, before I could commit felony’s song,
I saw her.

A Portuguese goddess
with a strut that can ruin a man’s dignity.

She had Autobahn curves,
dark brown curls of hair & visuals,
and thick flesh meat that even Vegans would envy.

Her face lacked Maybelline coated misapprehension.
Thank God!
Cause I never did like clowns.

After staring longingly at her,
like a crack head with impulsive eyes upon a broken/unlabeled bag of baby powder,
she breezed past my stifled posture and clocked in to work.

She didn’t even get a chance to smell my $500 cologne called “Piece of Me”.

So with new-found urges to grab all my groceries,
like a burglar who really has to pee,
I rush to express checkout. 

There she is.

Her register beeps in coupon lady’s rhapsody,
while my register needs a cleanup on Isle 9.

Now it’s my turn.

With girlish inner-screams of boy-band intensity,
I say, “Hi”.

She scans my apples, while I scan her melons.
The melons that the customer ahead of me didn’t want…
…they were on sale.

Go fig.

As if she read my mind,
she asks,
“Are you feeling warm now?”

“All I want is to be the heat in your moment”,
which I almost said.

But, “Now I am”, is uttered.

As she smiled with seductive demure,
she handed me my receipt
with her phone number on back.

As I left the market,
I began to get cold again.

These winds of change
became gusts of numbness.

I locked myself out of my heart.

I turned around to go back inside.

Only to discover, 
she didn’t have the key.

© Drake J. Eszes


Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2010

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A Getaway To Ancient Venice

I can still recall the look upon His face Each thought still makes me go to that enchanting place The vernal air was floral sweet and honey breezed We roamed along Venice's zigzagged lanes and cobbled streets On our secret rendezvous,We hugged affectionately under pastel gothic galleries Greeted by the aromatic smell of freshly brewed roast coffee beans Strolling along the pigeon-filled piazza San Marco We wandered hand in hand,in the serenissima ancient floating land Street musicians played their flutes.as We sat on a roof-top wooden terrace We glanced at merchants sell hand-blown murano glass by the picturesque Doge's palace We ate a snack , then walked away towards the old opera house which now has risen from its ashes. We sauntered forward through little alleys from where He bought me ,a gold painted venetian mask To my surprise ,He had another gift,a wrapped up scarlet sheer laced basque I peered at him through my dark lashes,He raised his left brow and flashed a smile Expressed his charm in playful ways,in a flirtatious endearing style. Boarded at last on a black gondola,cruised the lagoon and the canals A few light kisses,a few soft brushes,waiting the bell's toll whilst in his arms There we lay in waiting beneath the bridge of sighs We sealed our kiss and promised lips,to the harmonic sound of chimes He leaned on me,I welcomed Him,our spirits been entwined Above,the sky has changed its colour,I watched the sun set in his eyes All I am,I gave to him,my enduring heart- His sacred shrine All that He is He gave to me in once upon a time
Not for the contest,but thanks for the 'Lovemaking in an ancient place contest,inspiration'. This post is inspired by Ancient Venice and the tale of 'The Bridge Of Sighs' The tale goes-If you kiss your loved one with the bell's toll of St,Mark's Basilica, at sunset,beneath the bridge of sighs,the couple seals their love forever. There is another tale to it,a sad one,but preferred to share the happy one : )


Copyright © Charmaine Chircop | Year Posted 2014

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LIFE

I asked to my father
Baba, What is life ?
He politely said to me, " Life is Duty . "

I asked to my mother
Maa, What is life ?
She said to me with smile, " Life is Responsibility . "

I asked to my teacher
Sir, What is life ?
He said to me with love, " Life is Education . "

I asked to my spiritual master
Gurujee, What is life ?
He said to me with confidence, " Life is Devotion . "

Today my son who reads in class nine
Asked me
Babai, What is life ?
I have said to him, " Dear, You are my life . "

SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA


( Father means BABA, BABAI and Mother means MAA in Bengali language .  Gurujjee means spiritual master in Indian society ) 


Copyright © Sandip Goswami | Year Posted 2014

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A Love Letter to My Friends of India

When I think of India, I think of dark eyed beauties, their foreheads painted with decorative red dots, and I see them moving deliciously in beautiful bright costumes as bangles dangle from their slender wrists. When I think of India, I think of a culture steeped in history and tradition: folkloric music, myths, and dance, and the influence of the Hindu religion. I visualize the rich and poor alike bathing themselves in a river called Ganges. I see an olden time when mighty elephants, colorfully decorated, carried men atop their backs on elegant elephant seats, and I recall pictures in my geography studies of the white sacred cows freely roaming the narrow streets of Delhi. I recall a novel I read: Rudyard Kipling’s engrossing tale of a jungle boy and also other novels depicting a clash of cultures as the British imposed their rules on Indian society. I think of current movies showing the seedy side of India such as one named Slumdog Millionaire and a movie to contrast it, the romantic Bollywood delight named JabTak Hai Jaan. Furthermore, I recall the grace and good nature of the Indian people depicted in a film called The Best Ever Exotic Marigold Hotel. When I think of India, I think of the Taj Mahal, Kama Sutra, and curry, and also I recall horrible stories of Bride burnings now banned and by contrast, the good works of Mother Teresa, who labored there among the poor, and I think of the man who is probably the most recognized by Americans as a good and strong example of leadership: Mahatma Ghandi. All these things are the sum of what I have learned about India in my lifetime. But what do I really know of India? What I have learned recently relates to poets I have come to know at this website and who have shown me through their poetry and their communication with me, a more personal side of the Indian people that I never used to know. Through the poetry of Ravindra I have learned the love of an Indian for his heritage and how he emulates his father‘s work through beautiful translations. From poets like BL and Jag, I’ve learned more about the deep and philosophical nature of the Indian poet! Through great friendships with people like Kashinath, Yesha and Yasmin, and Guatami I have come to learn about the actual personalities of dear Indian people whose life experiences, struggles and desires are not so different from my own, and also I am able to enjoy their eloquent words as they describe their own emotions, passions, and love of nature through their poetry. Perhaps their culture adds a flavoring to their words and phrases that is a bit different from my own, but in the end, we are all alike beneath the skin. Whether from India or any other country, we are, all of us, becoming a part of a global community in which our differing backgrounds can be accepted and even better - celebrated! Thank you I say to all my poet friends whose words enrich my life, but in particular, today I thank my friends from India, for helping me to really see how beautiful you are and to understand your country better through knowing YOU.


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2013

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The Instincts of Innocence

I reflect upon a word -
   Innocence
To understand more fully what it means,
I think of what it conjures up for me -
childhood times -
 those times when I believed all I was taught
from silly things like Santa Clause
 to sacred things
            like God and true religion.

The way I accepted and then reacted to 
my mother’s definitions  of what was wrong and right
  I think is how I might define 
           my instincts ….. of innocence.
Having learned well right from wrong in my youth,
            my instinct was to feel shock or dismay
when I saw others doing      things I deemed immoral,
especially when the doers were those that I looked up to
           inside the parameters of my own church.
However, my tolerance for others’ evil doing 
  increased year by year, 
            Even in my youth, I never judged them outright.
Those girls and boys that slept around through high school
              were judged inside the silence of my mind.
       I never shunned them.

A few more decades passed. 
      Religion’s walls around me were wearing down.
  I never did cement the cracks in my walls’ foundation
      as did some others in my community -
               others who sought to strengthen their own walls
    with instincts of innocence espoused inside
                        the sanctity of chapels.
When was it I let my childhood instincts  totally crumble?

Generally more tolerant than many of my friends
  that I grew up with, I saw “other” people
with eyes that rarely blinked  at what I deemed to be audacity.
Those with different customs, or with strange new religions
          I have accepted in my life and tried hard not to judge.
Some things, however, I cannot tolerate.
             Societies that put their women down and 
people who abuse the weak, emotionally as well as physically,
Never will those actions I accept.

Now I ponder this: Are the instincts of innocence simply tied
          to what we learn as children?
I have seen select groups of people shunned
            by both the religious and the non-religious
simply for the fact that they are different!
And from whence comes the idea in a child’s mind 
to make him think that someone should be shunned?
Do our instincts of innocence simply come
from that time of life
when we looked up to our parents as our Gods,
accepting their every teaching as Gospel
and feeling fear to ever go against them?
Many things we learn are for our good, and
societies would turn to chaos without some guidelines
akin to the ten commandments.

On the other hand,
as a child, I was innocent.
    My instinct was to trust in strangers.
              Then I learned better.
My instinct was to cringe but say nothing   
   the time I was inappropriately touched.
Thankfully, since then, I have learned better.
In some instances, I would say, 
our instincts of innocence
                                                should be laid to rest!

For a long while now, I’ve been seeing
a small but significant segment of the population
that differs in their sexual orientation or preference.
Those who taught me in my youth
 that I ought to be as meek as a child
         still point today to ancient Scriptures
                  as the way for all to keep their innocence.

But my walls have fallen down.
    I stand here in the rubble
              unsure that I've done right or wrong
         in letting many of my childhood  ways of thinking
                   collapse so utterly.
The instincts of my thinking adult mind tell me that
     I am not wrong to stand with those who want their right
                to the pursuit of their own happiness
despite the fact their actions are denounced
         by the very teachings on which I was raised.

Can we ever really lose completely 
those thoughts developed from our early teachings, 
which led to the instincts of our childhood innocence?
At times, I cannot be completely at ease
in what I have let go of and in who I have become,
for the instincts of innocence 
     still dwell           in the caverns of my mind.


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015

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Just Three Pounds

Three pounds a month they
ask, save the Tiger, save the
Panda, save the Jaguar, save
the rain forest.
Three pounds a month for
the children's hospital and 
for the save the children's
fund, the RSPCA, RSPB,
Cancer research, just, only
three pounds a month, now
my pockets are empty with
all these donations.
Our governments, they also
donate, mainly to the 
FAT CAT SOCIETY
yes those poor sods who
caused the majority of man's
suffering with their greed and
avarice.
Please just three pound a 
month for the Daniel 
Cheesemans poetry fund.


Copyright © Daniel Cheeseman | Year Posted 2010

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Blue Tears On Parchment

Light blue tears on parchment, how softly my pen 
weeps for you. Ribbons of verse bind, pull tightly 
on oozing emotions. Devoted words lie embalmed 
in true affection, line upon line of adoration. I am 
besotted in ink, controlled by a heart that fills my 
page. My pen lies aside my love, my dreams, my 
day and night and what you are to me. Your kisses 
are the words planted and my future granted.


Copyright © Daniel Cheeseman | Year Posted 2010

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If Not

If not passion then desire, that fills 
this heart with fire. At last this heart
has found that hallowed ground at
your side, that place of dreams. 
Where the deepness of my love is
borne on wings of angels, where
the words of  love tumble, fall as
blossom at your feet. Sincerity
lingers like a fragrance, warm and
inviting, soft as that first kiss. That
first kiss built on the foundations 
of forever, of beating hearts in
perfect time. There is passion, there
is desire, but it is the true essence
of love that kindles the emotions
within this heart. Swaying to and fro
like poppies in an open field, this
open field a vastness of the purest 
love. Horizons to be reached, wishes
and dreams to be achieved. With
this in mind I forget time and dream
of you in eternity.


Copyright © Daniel Cheeseman | Year Posted 2010

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Doors

‘Enter and explore’ read the sign above Blake’s Hall.    
Sliding open the French doors I stepped inside
where I was greeted by a row of coloured doors.

Intrigued, I approached a green door, rested my hand
on the knob and turned it slowly. Peeping in I glimpsed
hope and harmony holding hands...then behind I espied 
two scary beasts, eyes gleaming with greed and envy.

Hastily I closed the door and moved to the next, a red one.
Its intensity drew me like a magnet, and unhesitatingly
I opened it to reveal a room divided in two sections; in
one, passion, love and desire lay in warm embrace...
in the other, danger and malice lurked in the dim light.

Unsure of myself, I walked on to the next, a yellow door.
With renewed energy I stepped in to be met by joy’s
cheerful countenance, but this soon was obscured by
the unpleasant smell of sickness and foul decay.

Again, another hasty exit which led me to a purple door.
Inside I witnessed luxury; felt an aura of power, mystery...
at the same time foreboding gloom, and frustration
sent a shiver up my spine; uneasily I closed the door behind me. 

Perplexed, abandoning my curiosity, I headed for the exit.
At that moment it dawned on me what Blake’s Hall stood for…
It was a clear reference to ... the doors of perception.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -                                
 © 31st March 2017 



Copyright © Paul Callus | Year Posted 2017

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AUTISM

I rise at the center of...
Is it a room? This is a face.
There is motion, too fast, too clamorous.
Cryptic and opaque. Shapes shift
into my field of view.
Recognize! The message spoken
ends in an upward curve.
Interpret! It means a question

?                         ?                            ?                          ?    

                                 What to respond, when....
                                 I get nauseous.
                                 My body twitches, my mouth tics
                                 I make no sound
                                 I cannot speak.
                                 I cast my eyes down.

Curl up, arms wrapped around self;
Rock to calm down again;
Count the tiles;
Hum Rachmaninoff.

                               What is this incomprehensible life?

My soothing world is filled with letters and words,
a keyboard, screen, and silent friends
They speak to me in sentences and formulas
of friendship and love...
on my screen..

I am afraid
         I am always so very afraid
                     Once I was somewhere else
                                    Locked up inside
                                                    My head

                                                                Once I was somewhere else
                                 I will not go back there
I want to stay out.


Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2017

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A SLave's Cry

Stranded in this place
I cannot recognize
Abandoned and lonely
No one hears my cries
AS i walk through this wasteland
Of wilderness and desolation
I am consumed with anguish
I walk this road with hesitation
On every turn that i come upon
The is more pain than at the last turn
Agony and torment spews from my pores
With every step i take more pain i earn
Until i am enveloped with grief
Buried alive on my feet
Dirt in my eyes,nose,mouth,and lungs
I throw up my flag of defeat
Each painful blow leaves behind a deep gash
That is constantly reopened never able to heal
Infection has now set into my heart
Slashes and scars on my body reveals the detail
Of the despair embedded deep in my soul
That tells a tale of a soul so lost
A soul wandering through this wilderness
A tale of what being born black cost


Copyright © April Mitchell | Year Posted 2013

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Language Barrier

I couldn’t understand the language she spoke,

at least not all of it,

but the emotion pouring past her lips, 

the tears in her eyes, her clenched and shaking fists

enunciated more clearly,

than any piece of English Poetry I had ever read,

and grabbed me, held me still.

                   …In that moment, her soul was in my arms.

In that finite, tender breath of our lives,

she was my mother, my best friend…

but I could not console her. 

I didn’t have the words;

and my heart sank into the 

concrete between us,

wet with the pain of God’s rain

and her tears. 

                  …Were my tears

So, I simply opened my palms

toward her crouched form and 

spoke the only words I could 

fathom, that would be accepted

by a stranger on a dangerous street. 

"I am sorry, It will be okay. God will bless you."

I knew she did not understand…

"Lo siento" 

                  “que va a estar bien”    

                            “Dios te bendecira’ “ 

the words were as messy as the overturned

duffle bag at her feet…and fumbled, slowly

from my lips, as my knees hit the street.

Two strangers, cried in the rain,

knowing nothing of each other’s suffering,

and yet we shared the weight,

together, for those few moments;

the barrier of language was broken.

Love spoke for us.  

-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.

…Love transcends any language

               


Copyright © James Kelley | Year Posted 2014

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SPEECHLESS SPOKEN WORD ARTISTE

SPEECHLESS SPOKEN WORD ARTISTE

So if my vocal folds can’t collaborate to produce sounds to communicate loudly to your beautiful mind that I have an endless mission of loving you, can’t there be any mere articulation in my vocal tract to do that? What are my tongue, lips, alveolar ridge, hard palate and velum doing? I never knew that emotions could shut my speech tract. How I wish my speech tract could connect to my heart, so that I can give you a cord of love inserted into my heart, for you to put it into your ears and listen to the words my heart says because I am speechless. I had it in my mind to tell you that you are beautiful, eloquent, and charming. When I drew nigh, I decided to start with the word ‘lady’ to show some decorousness. But I realized my lungs couldn’t even initiate the airstream for my glottis to either widen or narrow to cause my vocal tract to produce the voiceless and voiced sounds in the two syllable word, let alone the nine. Should I comply with those who say action speaks louder than words, so that I can gesture for you to get the feelings better? I thought I was one who could speak like a parrot, but I am now slides before you like carrots. But what could make a spoken word artiste speechless apart from the abnormal? OK! Let’s try establishing causality. The moment I saw you, you blinked your eyes, so probably that muted me. So if you could do that again, it may set me free. Don’t wait for me to tell you that you can cause distraction. Don’t go near a podium mounted by a performer, lest, you will cause distraction. Because that image you carry isn’t what you think. Not even a mermaid, more than strange. Please set me free because you are gradually becoming ‘head of Medusa ‘ , rays from your eyes are communicating with mine and making me motionless like lot’s wife is Sodom and Gomorrah. I came out of volition but it is now at your discretion to let me go, so please take off your eyes and set me free.

Tension within me had converted into electrical energy and burnt my speech tract. So what I am going through is beyond dumb. From a distance, I was in haste to meet you, but the moment I set my eyes on you, as though there were a speed rump- I started moving like a tortoise. What broke the camel’s back was when your eyelids became a canon camera and gave me flash, I became static. I wonder why I am speechless. I wonder why I am speechless. Because I am this man who can stand before a lady and produce lyrics more than ‘sarkology’ album, so I wonder why I am speechless. I could make a lady swim deeper in the pool of sweet words, so I wonder why I am speechless. Movement of my negative lips could attract positive ladies, so I wonder why I am speechless. Perhaps we are both negatives, so we repel. How I wish my vocal folds will touch along their edges from my thyroid and open slightly at my arytenoids to create a creaky sound like ‘huuh’ for you at least get the air of love, but none is working. I have thin vocal folds that can produce nice sounds like the lead guitar, so I wonder why I can’t even stammer. My phonetics is not working, let alone deploy my syntax for you to use your morphology in breaking down the words to achieve semantics.  How unfortunate it is that my speech tract couldn’t let out the words my mind has been saying since the beginning of this piece.

 


Copyright © CHRISDAD KOJO ARTHUR | Year Posted 2016

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Reflecting on Police Brutality

It was the spring of ‘74 when my student peers and I
were on the tail end of a group excursion  
through southern Spain, across Gibraltar’s Strait
and into the exotic northern tip of Africa.
I remember lots of greenery and mountains
and the fascinating sights and sounds inside Tangier,
but one small thing that happened somewhere between
the time we viewed the landscape we traversed 
and our time inside our destination city
stands out in my mind forevermore.

Our bus had briefly stopped on the street of a town.
I was looking out the window when I glimpsed a child,
looking poor and ragged, not so old.
He ran down the block with an orange in his hand,
an older man behind him in pursuit.
Quickly I observed that the man 
was a type of law enforcement officer,
 for he wielded a long strong stick
which he proceeded to use on the unfortunate lad
once he had caught up to him.

The event was very near our bus, 
so I could watch with growing horror
as this country’s version of a cop
unleashed brutality on a fellow human being,
a boy who was no doubt simply starved for food.
I saw the heavy stick fall repeatedly
till it struck the boy’s ear and blood gushed out. . . 

I would later view ornate gold buildings in Tangier,
 see colorful hand-crafted clothes and rugs, and smell
the aromas of strange delightful foods,
but beneath all that wonder was the singular event
that stayed inside my brain.

I think of my own country - free, so very free,
with laws against “this kind of thing” that had appalled me;
a land so free that gangs of filthy evil men, 
even sometimes with the help of the police,
had in days of yore lynched the black man
for crimes as meager as the taking of that orange,
or worse, for no crime at all!
Hateful mobs had beat and hanged
men and women, even children,
In the midst of the beauty of 
fragrant magnolia trees . . .

Civil Rights has done a lot 
to eradicate these horrors, yet even now,
a remnant of the Ku Klux Klan mentality
exists inside the minds of some, and even in
 the minds of some we trust to uphold the law.
I cannot know the thoughts that enter
the minds of law enforcers who think they are confronting
a person who they’ve deemed a criminal. 
I cannot know their fear when they see, perhaps,
what they suppose to be a weapon.
We cannot know their backgrounds 
or if they harbor prejudice against another color
or against the lower class.
The court and the jury decide the fate of those
who have used what our society may see as undue force.
God alone will judge them in the end.

We, as citizens of all the world, must be aware
that violence can be used
when the threat of it against themselves
is perceived by our police.
How sad to think that some of those 
who serve to offer us protection ,
whether out of ignorance, fear, or prejudice,
are using brutality so haphazardly. 

Those in my own country who have seen 
or even experienced police brutality
must have felt the same horror I felt the day I saw
a child beaten in a foreign land.
Who am I to judge another country
when mine is also mired still in sin?
God help us all to fight against 
the inane and unjust cruelty of those
who practice police brutality.


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2014

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Stargazer

Under 65 degree starry, onyx blanket
Containment of quarter moon identity

A whimsically soothing song exuded
In muffled taps & Prohibition era lyric

In the distance,
Snow-capped mountains reflecting lunar clarity
Off its tips of freedom

As we lay on recycled steel hood,
Made in 1950s USA, when it mattered,
Her silhouetted fingertips released from my right arm
While insistently looking towards stratosphere’s vocal chord

“Can’t it be like this forever?
Oh, how I want to just make love to the stars.
Become one with Orion while riding
On Sagittarius’s arrow”

“What about our stars?”, he softly questioned.

“I’d like to be your never-ending shooting star.
To ride on blue moon’s comet, by your side”

Cricket whispers manhandled his romantic clef
Mother Nature’s afterglow, upon her ears, fallen deaf

Inherent waxy build-up from illicit tongue,
She pat his shoulders like a dog
Being taught his first lesson

Her eyes, still sky high.

“Sigh, I like how you think.
You’re such a nice friend.
You’re going to make a woman so happy one day.
I hope to meet a guy just like you.”

As her eyes sighed with a powerful lack of substance
Into the arms of Leo,
A slammed car door supplants the reverberation of the car’s V8 engine.

He confidently turns back the hands of time.

Reversal gears become his new tune

“If you get lost going home, follow the stars.”

As he pulls away with majestic, amplified lyrics
Of Whitesnake’s “Here I go Again”

Going down the only road he’s ever known

While she stands in fraudulent gasps of shock,
Looking back up to the stars in blank wonder

As he accelerates into a new page in his book
Closing his chapter with wondrous questions

“Why would I taste your starlight?

When you never believed in our constellation?”

©Drake J. Eszes
It’s good to gaze at the stars and make wishes. But, be careful what you wish for. For Earth has its own gifts…


Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2013