Inside my prose poem is happiness, happiness for all. Even the juicy parts don’t lack think material. I have it on good authority. My autistic Aunt says I should stop writing. Where are the beans? I was told in my childhood that the even-tempered succeed. Why not? Die for your country? Not me, Siegfried. Tulips bloom in Holland. WOW! Have a Heart! Tulips bloom in Holland. Not me, Siegfried. Die for your country? Why not? I was told in my childhood that the even-tempered succeed. Where are the beans? My autistic Aunt says I should stop writing. I have it on good authority. Even the juicy parts don’t lack think material. Inside my prose poem is happiness, happiness for all.
Raymond Keen is the author of "Love Poems for Cannibals" (published in 2013) and the drama, "The Private and Public Life of King Able" (published in 2015).Raymond was born and raised in Pueblo, Colorado. He was educated at Case Western Reserve University and the University of Oklahoma before spending three years as a Navy clinical psychologist, with a year in Vietnam (July 1967 – July 1968). Since that time, he has worked as a school psychologist and licensed mental health counselor in the USA and overseas, until his retirement in 2006. Raymond is a Life Member of Vietnam Veterans of America (VVA) and Veterans of Foreign Wars (VFW). He lives with his wife Kemme in Sahuarita, AZ. They have two grown children, Anne-Elise and Michael.
In those corners of your eyes my darkness prevades I wish all the doors gets locked from inside Why does our western gleam fades in twilight shades And still you’re searching for me in pale moonlight The night never brings
My Pearl of Inestimable Value Out from its obscurity in this Silence Dawn, emerged an invisible Cruelty, gabbed in terminal robe; Stealthily descended upon this blissful abode: the habitation of ‘My Pearl of Inestimable Value’ With its fangs snarling in
I am terribly shocked and remorseful My sister, can’t help than weeping at your ill-fate Transcending self to a passive onlooker Or to the role of an unmindful passenger With torn heart, tied hands, and bleeding eyes All finding acutely
My heart loves you Was it not some time ago, My heart was like a rock? An impenetrable fortress, With steep cliffs at its side, A distance land, Far away, From where no ordinary soul, Would dare to reside? I
And with a gust of defeat; the future seems familiar. Has the oneness forgotten about me? The interconnectedness of futile Embellishments followed by straights of garbage, lack-luster trash, soul-less sirens of shit-laced spines, irrelevance, trains without brakes. Exposure, death, the