Prose Poems

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

May the ink that flows From the nib of my pen Forever entertain you With words of love And life and wonder Lick beams of light Through clouds of thunder May the blood that flows Through the hand that writes

I will end up at the sky gates, as a thirsty spike, roving around in valleys, looking for a crippled dream. I am an almond tree, a stolen joy for a feast of phantoms. I bend to the mornings’ face,

It’s a happy day! After hundreds of submissions, days of reviews and a month full of happy poems, we finally bring to you the 5 lucky winners of Happiness Happens contest who have won prizes amounting to 100$ (each winning

10 ways to write a poem! No sentence in the glory of English language has hit me as hard as this one did. I started writing poetry when I was in class 7th. I still remember the day when this

Hello! Chester here… Missing you so, A bookworm am I, Oh, yesss, today just sliding by… With spectacles on my nose, I do both poetry and prose. Want to hear more about me … And my family…? So awfully lovely

“Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind”, so said Virginia Woolf and you have truly embodied her thoughts in actions by

A word on a line joined with many and more, a story to tell from behind a closed door. A line on a page and a paragraph to make, from a thoughtful sage to the ones who forsake. A page

He was the first man your eyes opened to.. The shivering hand that touched your tiny nose.. The strong arm you cuddled on.. His love that kept brimming but never spilled.. Those eyes that made everything seem within reach.. That

You know, I just write as it flows Sometimes poetry Sometimes prose Who knows… What this life brings Who knows… When the nightingale sings Yesterday is history Tomorrow is a mystery Today is the truth Now is the reality I

She shakes it, spreading the exuberance, gushing out of its folds ’n Crevices of long-ago, like a perennial stream of jubilant euphoria- Converting matter into emotions, from the tangible to the intangible, Embodying an idyllic confluence around, fervently fluttering to

If a picture paints a thousand words Then where does that leave me A pen for a brush and ink as my paint And the words are what you all see If the pen is mightier than the sword Then

The Pen And The Page If a picture paints a thousand words Then where does that leave me A pen for a brush and ink as my paint And the words are what you all see If the pen is

In Biblical times there was a youngster name David who killed a lion and a bear. Later on, he also killed a terrorizing giant and became the second king of Israel. My oldest brother never became a king, but he

Sitting in this beautiful dark night , Framing the tale of life. When time runs out and heart needs to say so much more, And you are left with a raw nagging sore. Then reach for your paper and pen,

(1) My grandmother, may God have his mercy on her, still keeps the role of the hero; her face wrinkles are a leather book open to all interpretations; the falling of her teeth are the lost evidence on present time;

I’ve fallen in love with the poet In all its dimensions rippling across the pool of time, incarnate in its everything the rosy cheeked and wet lipped girl rattling existential verse over the clamor of a twelve car train, barreling

Nothing I shall do, to be a wisher; No wishes to make. Never mind,my friends, The”Making Wishes” prose won’t run so long. A wish precisely persists as a wish all along, Until I’m propelled by the blowing wind of wish

The Pen And The Page If a picture paints a thousand words Then where does that leave me A pen for a brush and ink as my paint And the words are what you all see If the pen is

Hours before the birth of the gem, There was an affectionate argument between them; Her father said, ”Watch my child change the state as a minister”, To which her mom quipped, ”No she’ll deliver unbiased justice as a barrister.” When

One night, one day Two different kisses One Sun, one sky Two galaxies No door from one to another No pathway through space Yet, in a daze I travel, From one to the other In this twin exit maze Days

Physically abused, Mentally accused, Emotionally scared For the ones she held dear. Her burning flesh And the positive tests Her leaking face Would always make my heart race The looks of disgrace would show on their face Without a clue,

O; happy folk, poetry is the fingers of light, descending at evening like an old farmer with eyes cut from azure. It told me that the sun has two long braids, and goes out at dawn to her grandfather’s flourishing

When I die, Bury me in those pages, Which failed to become My identity, my stages. Let me lie close To those verses, Those prose, Which never truly dealt With the emotions I felt. In my death Let me be

The Pen And The Page If a picture paints a thousand words Then where does that leave me A pen for a brush and ink as my paint And the words are what you all see If the pen is

The cough syrup and amphetamine Don’t seem to mix, in nineteen-ninety Six, and I throw up in the Communal showers, from Impurities. The sight Of the silver fish helped. Tony, in room eight, no longer Around. Dragged his corpse From

The Pen And The Page If a picture paints a thousand words Then where does that leave me A pen for a brush and ink as my paint And the words are what you all see If the pen is

I am a word, the word that came from God, careful how you use me. The creation spoke through ages with so much wisdom, and till today I am alive and live among you, I am not afraid of anyone,

Small ripples of the lagoon under azure sky… may be life is nothing but a mental satisfaction. How they touch my toes … how they wet my heel… life is so beautiful I can feel, I can feel… Some ends

Everyday I stand Bold on my Roots Giving you all the reasons to Live Feeding your Wards with all of my Fruits Even after all the Tortures you Give You need me today to build your Nest Everyday it’s not

Love me, don’t leave me Hold me, don’t free me I will always be there Please don’t use me And never refuse me Never refuse the love that I give For without your love I can no longer live The

In a day when the light Follows evening not night It may be time for a second glance In the night when the moon Is a painted balloon It may be time to leave the dance Will we ever get

Slowly, slowly as the storm brews Dark Images, thoughts and words of abuse Tunnelling, focusing, blurred then black Is that yet another knife in my back? Raging inside yet aware, not awake Cornered and shaken, I will not let them

My tomb is spread with bear’s garlic I was once a scourge of smoke the margins of the forest are lined with sharpest light city folk shriek and bleed my sepulcher is a woven oval ancient beeches clutching shoulders crooks

If ever In my Life I wish not to stay, Turn my back and just go away. Tell me will you hold my hand, and surely ask me there to stay? If ever in my Life I will be filled

I look to you in Autumn’s merge with the climax of love for the fragrance of scented leaves in the trees I look to you in the quaint forest all alone with the howling of owls in the distance through

When I was young, I thought I knew so much about so much, about this and that, and him and her, and they and them, and such and such. When I was young, I knew where I wanted to go,

Let’s get wasted at 2 am and say all of the things that have never been said – you know, while we’re sober, on guard and too ashamed to speak? I want to know what and how you think. We

Cold fingers, glowing face Head down, thumbs up Red eyes, watery and strained Our heads ache from the new emperor’s reign. There’s buzzing pockets A reminder that it’s always there and the people on the other side demand our attention

It’s winter– empty branches all around. Sick mountains beyond covered mists, their beauty not known… And, looking at winters pale half moon, Alone, I remember– my days past with you, those paired past of sixteenth, still drenched in sweet spring

Walking in the bush, late in the afternoon: Spring winding trails Among Plantae et Animalia. An independent world —Sort of realm of alien species Welcomes your senses with a storm of small flies (genus Drosophila) Which playfully floods the air,

that has been, was so raven that you were hugging vanity for the deportation of death as a living; fake predicates of a genius like words falling as bucketfuls of lies, back to back coffer dams collapsing, submerging seers’ sarcophagi,