A Wooden Chair

A Wooden Chair prose poem

Photo by

He is still leaning, without arms, on legs doomed to be broken. His profession is lively death, solitude and cold. He remembers nothing from his far past, except for birds’ songs, the rustle of pale leaves, the bubble of a rivulet, an axe and two poor hands.
He listens to the sounds of creeping ants and hears all speeches, but says nothing. Here he is sitting, groaning with no voice and wishing a virgin breeze. Yet, when secrets rain over him, he just buries them into the stone.

Rate the poem
1 Star2 Stars3 Stars4 Stars5 Stars (1 votes, average: 3.00 out of 5)
We are posting your rating...

Have something to say about the poem?

Fareed K. Ghanem

Signup / Login to follow the poet.
I am 58 years old, from eastern Galilee, Israel (Palestine). I studied English literature, psychology and Law at the Hebrew university (Jerusalem). In the last three years, I published three books of which is dedicated to prose poetry. You are invited to visit the Facebook page Shadows of Water, where I publish my prose poems I translate to English.
Poems you will love

Give your feedback / review for the poem

Be the First to Comment & Review poem!

Notify of
avatar
wpDiscuz

The Empty Chair

The Empty Chair short poem

The echo of my footsteps As I walk past the porch, The creaking of the rocker As the breeze gives it a life. Tell me a story chair, Of all that you have seen: Boys and girls on their bikes,

The Empty Chair

The Empty Chair short poem

The echo of my footsteps As I walk past the porch. The creaking of the rocker As the breeze gives it a push. Tell me a story chair, Of all that you have seen: Boys and girls on their bikes,

The Olde Wooden Rocker

The Olde Wooden Rocker prose poem

The old wooden rocker was rustic and worn; no one could remember the year it was born. It rocked with one partner for decades of years but now it was silenced, and all were in tears. Its faithful old rider

The Olde Wooden Rocker

The Olde Wooden Rocker prose poem

The olde wooden rocker was rustic and worn; no one could remember the year it was born. It rocked with one partner for decades of years but now it was silenced and all were in tears. The faithful old rider

The Empty Rattan Chair

The Empty Rattan Chair short poem

As I hold her wrinkled hand in mine I look at her eyes so divine The smile on her face shows joy in her heart It shall remain and never depart… She sits in her rattan chair She falls asleep