Long Prose poetry Poems
Long Prose poetry Poems. Below are the most popular long Prose poetry by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Prose poetry poems by poem length and keyword.
FOR A SWEET SABLE SAINTLY MOTHER
Wearing her crown of pearly white hair,
Her sunken orbs glowed with a regal glare.
Her ebony hued, wrinkle hands, strong as stone
Are monuments of the burdening labor she had owned.
As her broken body has known sorrow and pain,
It remains a mystery how she has managed to remain sane.
Though her life has known despair and great depravity,
She’s never succumbed to the indignities of social gravity.
Indeed, “life for her has been no crystal stair”,
Yet, for us, she has always been there with loving care.
She’s the sturdy black bridge which we’ve crossed over on;
To travel along the jubilee road towards our liberation.
Indeed, this raven skin queen reins supreme like no other:
Praise God for the blessing me with this sweet sable saintly mother.
I Am Also Yours…He Said Of Her
(Apropos A Beloved Child)
Not until you have been
‘bused and scorned like me,
can you ever know how it is to be
treated like a child conceived in mortal sin
locked in the closet; denied to live like the free.
Oh, what great lies were created and told;
what blatant fallacies were allowed to persevere?
All because the meek were afraid to break the mold;
preferring rather, to serve the vanity of society’s fierce fear—
Yes I too, am a blessed child of your God;
identified in nature as a creature of His will.
A fish is a fish, be it a trout, guppy or cod;
if the Maker was a She, wouldn’t you love Him still?
Or would you succumb to the bigotry of man’s begotten will?
I sit here pondering my death.
As I look upon the remnants of my tattered remains for signs of my so called life, I come to the conclusion that to do this, I must first accept the fact that I even had a life.
But how can one have lived without the rhythmic beating of a heart, or the spiritual foundation of a soul to support ones wants and desires, or the will that encourages the thoughts and dreams of existence.
How could the emptiness that was inside me have housed such a wonder?
How is it possible the weakness I felt could ever have held such a power within?
Is it possible I had reached the pinnacle of my suffering and committed emotional suicide?
Is it possible my demise was due to the ravenous wants and needs of man, disguised as passion and love which lured me into my willingness to give all that I had so freely, to satisfy a gluttonous appetite that consumed everything in its path including the memory of who and what I was?
But to acknowledge this would be to admit I gave my precious gift of life in exchange for a lie wrapped in the promise of everlasting happiness and love.
I sit here and ponder my death but I do not mourn.
For I have only lost the vessel which held my true spirit, the one which now looks for the light and the chance to be reborn.
A new being of strength and wisdom who realizes the mistake made in that other form, but will now hold dear all that is to come and all that will be.
Night Terrors
It sits hiding in the deep recesses of the mind, waiting in the dark for the moment when it can attack. Riding upon the winged beasts of the night, bringing horrors untold to those unaware of their intent. Asleep and unable to defend one’s self, night terrors attack.
Seeking the young, the battered, the old, and the week, they breed and spread evil upon the world of the sleeping. Feeding upon the screams in the minds of the unwary, these demons of the mind grow to consume all that is peaceful and serene. Savage and without mercy they tear apart all semblance of peace, in the dreams of there sleeping victims.
Riding the waves of the seas of our dreams as they are turned into unspeakable horrors of the mind, the dreamer finds themselves at the bottom of the sea of sleep. With visions and horrors beyond telling all that is innocent and pure in the mind is beyond them, as the screams in the night feed the horror that torments their sleep.
Rest is futile as they thrash trying to throw off the demons that haunt their sleep never peaceful the night a thing of disembodied torment. They seek the death of sleep without dreams or flights of fancy, no children playing, no flowers blooming just the deep, dark, black, of a death like state.
Writhing in the agony of the images that haunt them, the dreamers are unable to free themselves from the terror that taunts, when freedom is only an awakening away.
By
Josehf Lloyd Murchison
MUSIC THERAPY FOR WOMEN
Music therapy helps people a lot, in our case
we have special tips for women:
In case our friend is feeling depressed,
we advise you to sit down comfortable and put in execution
the song: YOU ARE THE SUNHINE OF MY EYES with Steve Wonder ...
knowing to be the sun of someone's eyes any depression will go away ...
Feeling unimportant in this world, first cry
much later listen: John Lennon's WOMAN and understand that
someone thinks that all you ... just know who is that sadness
it will end ... and self-esteem will grow ...
To miss a past, lost love ... that's for sure ...
put it on: A LOVE SO BEAUTIFUL with Roy Orbinson,
it's shooting and falling ...
And to feel truly nice, only one song sure
lift any mood: PRETTY WOMAN also with Roy
Orbinson ... raises any mood ...
if music therapy doesn't solve my friend I don't realize what tip to counsel...
maybe if you have missing tea for some time ... or for whom
likes to fill the pot with cachaça ... not to say ugly things ... I don't know.
good luck...
Wandering around the earth saying you love me? What do you know of love..,
If I thought you knew anything of love I would've stayed..
yes, there beside you in that little house, in that little bed.
Not just locked away inside that thick head.
(I can't tell her she is only a figment)
Well., easy enough to talk to a shadow, you cast one too. Change the radio station to your oldies, but don't see me, don't even listen.
Remember that day you walked me to my Psych 101 class?
You didn't even try, you didn't reach for my hand, and now I don't care.
(I can't tell her she is only a figment)
There are codes in all of life, I built mine around them. To get past my past, trying to tell you it. I was in mortal combat with depression. You never knew how dark those days could get. Always smiling; handing me a crummy flower. You never had any codes, no morals, only music. Yet you dare to think you love me.
(I can't bear to tell her she is only a figment)
If I thought you knew anything of love I would've stayed.
Yes, there beside you in that little house, in that little bed.
Not just locked away inside that thick head.
Sage Saga Of A Home On A Hill
Having drank from the sun at meridian,
The moon drunk with the light
Of reflection, always dissipated dreaded darkness
Seeking to veil the Hill—Raised bump
Of nature’s glowing face;
This swollen womb of nature nourishing beginnings
Of generations plodding centuries wounded
With trials and tribulations—Grand Canyon invisible walls
Mocking the abyss of Middle Passage ocean depths
Carpeted with ivory bone trees rattled by circadian waves
Splashing stilled sandy sea shore stones sunken in time.
Beginnings begin with the eruption of sunlight;
Rays flowing lava-like to chloroplast genes
Of generations of quantum leaping Greens
Synthesizing seminal spirits spewing
Audacious faith—audacious faith blooming
Mushroom cloud determination rising
As a risen national family tree;
Branches thrusting tentacles forever upward.
Streaming through, flows a river Brazos
Whose residents often crawled, netted and hooked
Their way to the Hill—accepting all aching
To give or receive freely—nourishment.
A gumbo gathering of love supreme;
Charged sable soul soars—sailing
Pillow puffed verandah skies;
Stoking old horizons—searching
Mountain top promise land dreams.
Where I have been I have just begun to go;
Returning to the beginning—
To tap the toasted roots anchoring the journey’s
Design—etched beneath the shade of limbs
Of an ancient Chinaberry tree
Looking out over the Hill—
Shadowing shelled street that oysters built.
The senior poem now resonate an ebony perspective:
“…It’s sweet to dream of Venice…It’s great to think of Rome…
But when it comes to living…There’s no place like home…
So it’s home again and home again for me…”
My Hill—My home…My family tree. Here I grew; here I be.
The new girl is maniacal they told me.
They were bobbing their heads in agreement.
She has fuchsia hair. She acts weird.
She is off-the-record-books-crazy.
Something is definitely different about her.
I began to run.
She is super sensitive. We didn’t do anything.
She is sobbing like a banshee, and …..
No one understands why.
Her eyes are pink. She looks like a vampire.
I encountered her in the dining hall.
Plunked down next to her. I was new too, I tell her.
I reach out and touch her hand.
They are nut buckets, I say. Pay them no attention.
Tell me your story I say.
She begins to sob.
She does not know me.
For all she knows I am just like them.
I sit patting her back for a long time,
neither of us speaking,
both understanding the meanness of this place.
As I see it
God is not a Dictator,
Does not judge --
Judgment is the
negative truth residing in
His All Knowing being --
As forgiveness, the faultless
depth of His Ever Present Mercy --
-------------------------------
Penitence leads to Sacred Balance
-------------------------------
We judge ourselves, the cause
and effect of Mental duality --
---------------------------------
Sin the eventual personification
of good -- illness, pain and
suffering, leads to the resurrection
of purity --
------------------------------
No ultimate defeat can come
from Divine Love!
---------------------
Lighten the duration
of burden~
Forgive yourself
and all others --
Do then as your Father
does in Heaven....
An ordinary rectangular wooden mirrored lid, paint-chipped and worn,
sits in my bathroom, the mirrored part having gotten spotted over time.
I often hold it up in front of me, faced away from the bathroom mirror
to check my hair and clothing from behind.
Sometimes I take it in my gym bag to check myself after workouts.
Other times it has served as a receptacle for small items such as pins or pencils.
The remnants of two gold latches, flattened now and a bit rusty,
prove that this common lid was once attached to something else;
it was a lovely jewelry box, for which the mirror served a definite purpose.
When the box was open, the mirror, upright, reflected a tiny ballerina
dancing on a center platform to the tinkle of a pretty tune.
No one would guess the sweet scene this old mirror once reflected
nor the many childhood treasures its lid covered, so why do I still hang on to it?
However ordinary it is today, this mirror inside a bulky lid gives me some small comfort. . . .
If I try, I can almost recall the times I opened the precious box beneath it
to see a ballerina twirl, accompanied by that sweet music from my youth.