I’m not whom
You may think
I am
But am the who
That I am
And the coming
To being more
As the belly
Of my soul
Craves
In hunger
For divine
Wisdom
And guidance
Poured from
God’s overflowing
Cistern spilling
Out onto
The dry sponge
Of my soul
Awaiting hydration
Of awareness
And inspiration
To be likewise
Squeezed out
Onto other
Dehydrated sponges
Of spiritual souls
Needing
Flowing prose
And wetting rhymes
Saturating healing grace
During all needed times:
Grief and despair
We’re not to harbor
For to do so
Is to jam-jar horror
Always remember
On the way
We go
Spiritually bound sailors
Sailing waves
To the shores of life
Frothing away failed
Behaviors
So in keloid memory
Of this little prose
Flowing rhyme
From me
In every moment of
A trying time
Keep this little flow
In mind
And enjoy from
The Cistern above
Healing peace and love:-
EPISODIC POLITICAL MOCKERY
Legislative trials are roaming;
Congressional criminals
Gaining more freedom to re-chain
Our growing liberty:-
Today’s bombed and pre-bombed
Societies and us are becoming
So similar in judicial acts of inequality:-
For us, the Constitution has become
As a stretched rubber band
Of negative jurisprudence—
And in today’s apathetic joyous modernity,
We too, seem to approach a modern-day
Diabolical bombing Civil War situation:-
Remember, all choices have their
Accompanying consequences;
Be they sweet Moonlake-like
Or geyser waterfall-like:-
After today’s extended Breaking News episodes,
I am praying this Just Different poetic prose flow,
Will be of an awareness thought-provoking
Brain-shore frothing consequence:-
How long will I love you, often you ask
Forever and a day, my love will last
Till there’s no blossom or leaves upon trees
Or pretty daffodils dancing o’er breeze.
Till clouds cease to form patterns in the sky
All seas and rivers begin running dry
Till all poets have no poetic prose
Or night has no beginning, day no close.
Till no man or creature walks upon earth
Gold or silver has no value or worth
Till there are no birds flying on the wing
Or voices aren’t heard and no one can sing.
Till the day we take our Heavenly place
Living for eternity in God’s grace
With time to dance among stars up above
Darling I send this in glimmers of love.
Some people write
poetically
And some write
poetic prose
Both front and rear gates
lead back to a garden
To harvest
—what is grown
(Dreamsleep: December, 2023)
Since birth it was between *U and Me*.
*U* hold my hand at the time of frights.
*U* pat my shoulders to admire my strive.
*U* wiped my tears while drowning into ebb and flows of woes..
Then the page flipped
U* and *Me* extended to *He*.
It generated a *trio* between *U*, *Me*, and *He*.
Now love flourished equally between three.
I felt *U* in his melting touch.
I saw your flickering image in his eyes burning with love.
I felt *U* when *He* wrapped his arms around *Me*.
Once In a moment of delight,
I raised my hands, closed my eyes and wished.
May this trio remain forever between *U, Me* and *He*.
Ameen
This poetic prose is my confession of true love . © a day ago, Sidra zahoor spiritual • mystic • love • strength • of • relationship
Words are flinging and flailing, ferociously flipping and flying.
I watch it happen, helpless to get any control; for they are frenzied.
My muse rolls her finger around her ear, indicating their craziness.
Isn’t part of this ….us? I ask her? Trixie has answers for everything.
She puts her finger into wet paint on a brush and flips dots on a page.
They begin to prance around, making perfect poetic prose.
How do you do that? I ask her, amazed. She is a wonder.
The words start rearranging themselves, until they are even better.
Numbers try to find a place but they are annihilated with a look.
Trixie and I both despise math.
Believe in me...
Elegance, I see...
Auras that shine so bright
Understand that you’re alright
Tranquil as a rose, a teardrop on its nose
I must say, you’re such a poetic prose
Felt ashamed for so long...for oh so long...
Understand, beautiful, you’re my lovely song
Lacking sunshine in the hottest city...
Lacking sunshine in Arizona, baby!
Breathe in and out...
Be faithful without a doubt..
Be hopeful always.
Beautiful are your ways these days
Wish you could see
Your endless beauty
Wish I could handle
That fact that you’re more than beautiful
Can I be honest with you?
I didn’t mean to make you feel blue
Didn’t mean to make you weep in rue
Do you forgive me true?
The world can be so cruel
But, know that you’re beautiful
I have plenty of sunlit smiles
That will last us a million miles
You are you
Can I be like you too?
You are so true
I love you, who knew?
As a child you lost your parents and family wealth
by the decree of the Russian Tsar.
You barely remembered your mother teaching you French.
You were noble, aristocratic Polish child.
Your father Apollo, a poet and a writer,
was your first teacher of English.
He composed a poem to commemorate your birth.
Accepting truth you reconciled tragic past.
In youth you went sailing on the merchant ships
and became philosophical man,
learned in distant adventures,
searching for life with a moral sense.
You always despised the lie
in every day life,
distant and metaphysical –
in your rhythmic, poetic prose.
Every leader is a Poet
campaigns by light poetry
delivers speeches in metaphors
loads satires on opposition
paints fallen ones with ironies
praises success in rhymes
presents challenges in narratives
answers questions in poetic prose
When ejected from power,
sings elegiac lyrics and epics
laments in limericks
writes regime history in idyll
When dead, tomb carries epitaph
Painting a picture of porcupines playing
Pincushions parked in the field
Purple and pink for this playful perception
Plans of their purpose revealed
Painful endeavors of pacified pranksters
Preparing a pie at their place
Pecan or pumpkin, pickle, pineapple
Pieces are smeared on their face
Putting the paint on some powder puff paper
Pleasure in each stroke is plied
Pausing to peer at some porpoises playing
Prancing in pansies they hide
Puzzling problems with pretzels and peanuts
Posturing people to prove
Pistachio perfume in prime presentation
Preaches that peaches will move
Polishing pastels on pre-printed pages
Prized the possessions we seek
Paisley the plumes of a peacocks posterior
Portraits now come take a peek
Pampering pelicans play the piano
Pure as a piccolos prayer
Picking a parcel of plum flavored pudding
Poetic prose fills the air
Pleats in my pants shout in proud proclamation
Puddle my pores that perspire
Poodles on playgrounds prevent prosecution
Plotting my hearts pure desire
Passion precedes every past tense of parting
Piled with a presence so true
Painting a picture while purposely dreaming
Promising my love to you
Embrace the line
it flows straight yet narrow
guiding the eye and the hand along its edge.
Behind lies the blanks waiting
hoping for some beatific message
to be filled in along the emptiness.
Focus and see the ink
flowing from the pen
in a cursive calligraphic display.
Words and phrases wrapped around a vision
that waltz dances on the page
then springing forth in calypso imagery.
Hears it, feel it, see it give birth
in poetic prose and rhythms felt
deep in the mind, heart and soul.
Embrace the line
it draws attention
and unexpectedly,
poetry is born
right there
with love, inspiration and deep emotion
revealed along the lines.
In youth, I wrote many poems of rhyme,
quatrains flowing freely on the lines.
Here and there a couplet would unwind
and on occasion quintains undefined.
As time progressed, I tried my hand
at Japanese Haiku and tanka you
but mine were plain and bland.
Soon enough came some monologues,
they are always in my head,
brandishing wild, love lustful poetry
with blank verse and ballad narratives unsaid.
Nowadays though, I think I may have settled in
with a grandiose display of my version of free verse.
But as age and loss requires and incurs
elegies and eulogies and epitaphs, the worse.
Still on occasion, a line plays out to idylls,
some kyrielles and odes.
Few limericks survive, as learned outside of school
but writing feelings, love, emotion
often lets me play both the lover and the fool.
A pastoral or deep poetic prose may still find
and shape in sonnets may reveal a deeper mind.
Hidden somewhere is a multitude of Vaasokhts
but not a single verse of love revealed
leaving many on the sidelines unknown
awaiting other compilation remaining to be shown.
Traditional poetry has rhyme and metre
Which determines the way it is composed
These features make it a simple matter
In distinguishing such poetry from prose
A lot of writing now is in free verse
Where the main focus is on the content
The thing that now really matters the most
Is true capture of the poet's intent
Some free verse strive for a sense of metre
By carefully managing line layout
Some focus on painting a word picture
For that's what their poetry is all about
Prose rich in sentiment and imagery
Can also be rewritten as free verse
Would it then be described as prose poetry
Or should it be labelled poetic prose
What new poetry forms will the future grow
It's time alone that will give the answer
For poets may come and poets may go
But poetry shall continue forever
Standing in my home’s backyard, gazed at the skies
No poetic prose jumped out, but two staring eyes
It swapped the branches of a tree by a daredevil jump
Whirling, twirling, passing in mid air getting the hump.
All the summer on the tall tree bare and brown
See how the brown leaves are fluttering down
This squirrel, my poetry, bobbing from eyes so bright
Busy now hunting for nuts to hoard with all her might
In an old nest of crow or pie in a hole where day by day
Nut by nut for her winter store explores stores away
So that when winter comes with its cold and storm
She will sleep all curled up, all snug and all warm.
She looks and again and again after storing there
So she could remember, she hid the treasure where.
+++++++
July 20, 2014
Form : Rhyme
Dr. Ram Mehta
Third Place win
Contest: Animals Alive by Carol Eastman
My Poetic Prose
Standing in my home’s backyard, gazed at the skies
No poetic prose jumped out, but two staring eyes
It swapped the branches of a tree by a daredevil jump
Whirling, twirling, passing in mid air, getting the hump.
All the summer on the tall tree bare and brown
See how the brown leaves are fluttering down
This squirrel, my poetry, bobbing from eyes so bright
Busy now hunting for nuts to hoard with all her might
In an old nest of crow or pie in a hole where day by day
Nut by nut for her winter store explores stores away
So that when winter comes with its cold and storm
She will sleep all curled up all snug and all warm.
She looks and again and again after storing there
So she could remember, she hid the treasure where.
===================================
Date: 8-12-13
Dr. Ram Mehta
Fifth Place win
Contest: Put Your Best Rhyme Forward by Just That Archaic Poet
Sub Categories
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