Poems written by Warren P Padla

Warren P Padla

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majored in journalism at NYU in the 50s; received my masters in business from there and worked for Equitable Life in NY for many years. When retired entered antique business and real estate; retired to Massachusetts and Florida; currently do a lot of volunteer work. Friends forced me into poetry due to much writing I had sent to them over the years. So I joined High On Poems. the end, warren

The Bee

The Bee prose poem

One summers day in mid-July, I sauntered down a rocky path, secluded and forbidding; the trees and vines were on all sides, entangled, strong, and hidden; I trudged along the darkened path with fear for one full hour, with help,

The Old Vine

The Old Vine prose poem

The red brick wall was old and cracked, but still was strong and active; all covered by a tough old Vine that made the wall its captive. Each year in Spring, the vine grew leaves of green and tiny flowers,

The Storm

The Storm prose poem

The Storm was fierce with deadly winds that pointed to a farmland, that once was filled with life, and love, a farmer’s precious homeland; but droughts had hit and done their deeds, and things began to die, and all the

Scarola

Scarola prose poem

This precious leafy lettuce green is much less known than others, but beats them all by very far, for all the field it covers; Its greatest use turns out to be, a must for one good salad, and praises for

The Indian Sign

The Indian Sign prose poem

The town is known as Williamsville; It’s just a tiny hamlet, with one small green, on one small street with only seven houses; but long ago was home to Indians, their children, and their spouses. In honor of this peaceful

The Breeze

The Breeze short poem

Across a sleepy low lit stream, a quiet breeze swept by; It made its way across the land, determined and unshy; It covered flowers, rocks, and sand, and all within its path, with tiny droplets wet and cool, a shower,

The Red Carnation

The Red Carnation prose poem

She tiptoed lightly down the stairs, so quietly and some pause. At only eight, it was quite clear, her sight was on a cause. Her mother’s drawing pad, her brushes, and her paints; her goal to leave behind a painting,

A Sailor’s Story

A Sailors Story prose poem

A sailor’s story lingers long while others disappear; its locale point is Cuban soil when freedom was still here. My tall young frame was all decked out with new tight tailored whites, with thirteen shiny buttons new, that much improved

The Visit

The Visit prose poem

A sound sleep ends with sounds of wings and tiny crashes of small things; my eyes roam round the room to search the scene, and soon I know it’s not a dream. And then the wings take flight again from

The Mighty Maple

The Mighty Maple prose poem

Tiny droplets from the tap; perfect timing of the sap. Trees’ free gifts of God’s great bounty; wooden buckets in every county. Then to kitchen and to table, a syrup known for years, since cradle. And golden color everywhere, lights

Grey To Blue

Grey To Blue prose poem

Blue skies in one’s life can often turn grey, and cloud up one’s vision for quite a long stay. You falter and stumble in things that you do, and why it is happening, you haven’t a clue. Your life seems