Prose Poems
do you think we're friends in every universe?
by t.e. talbott
"do you think we're friends in every universe?"
i think sometimes
you're an unexpected present in June,
the gift of consideration outside of birthdays.
sometimes i'm gratitude, a full heart
thanking the heavens for you.
sometimes i’m the white-washed face of God
in someone's painting,
......
The Written Word
by John Michaelson
The Written Word by John Michaelson
The infinite and eternal power of the written word,
Penned naked and vulnerable on the page,
Lies only in the destiny of its earnest reader,
With its untapped potential trapped in its cage.
As its curves and its corners are flowing with ease,
Whether handwritten, typed or etched,
Its power to influence the reader it attracts,
......
Villanelles II by Michael R. Burch
by Michael R. Burch
These are villanelles by Michael R. Burch and and villanelle-like poems, including a new new poetic form I invented, the “trinelle” or “triplenelle.”
Villanelle: She Always Grew Roses
by Michael R. Burch
for my grandmother, Lillian Lee
Tell us, heart, what the season discloses.
......
Congratulations! You've discovered dreaming!
by jan christian MN
Every step you took and would fulfill was written out there somewhere, engraved in something alive, something inhumanely human. The second your soft infant skull was greeted by the starving air, it was known: you were doomed to decay, a continental feast for the earthworms. But you must live your years fearing death, like it were an escapable end; that no matter how colossal the tunnel was for the mortal eyes, you must persevere, at least until a speck of light dapples into your face.
The world outside of the 'turning point' was something unknown even to the omnipotent people you had in your English class—when they said Hughes was a lawful husband, you knew it was the end of the human race; you'd think, yes, perhaps the doom was part of the mind; we are our own nemesis, electrocuting past the flaws to make it seem like we had it the first time, but even the just-so-happeneds were meant to happen; they weren't a reflection of your magnetic existence, they were experiences waiting to happen.
The cache of gold at the end of the rainbow was a mere illusion, a key to open the gates of reality, for too much grounding would only do us harm. Think fiction, where dungeons were glorified as monumental structures of the revolution, the revolting rise of the apes—or so they said—Princes always catch the Princesses, because that was how the chapters of a life were sketched, a tall tale of too much telling. Still, hearts remained as the main points of the stories; you'd realize once you step your one foot out of the book that the axis of the core relies on your operating mind. Fantasies were cover-up for the subjective cracks in the world, a facade working the graveyard shift to keep the narrative running: that we are the weakest link in the food chain, and all we can do is dream about the magic life of picket fences disguised as castles and crowns.
When weekends turned out better than foreseen, they'd write about the hell manifestation in the contemporary. When seconds didn't go as planned, they'd whisper about the delicate sight in every little matter, every little moment, and suddenly, salvation was a thing again, because damn, I'm late for work! Sufficiency was the empty container in the veins of the amalgamated flesh, wondrous traits wrapped around their bones like fiber, and god, they love being healthy and on-track, and keeping track of the missteps and falls.
Routines were the central branch of the prophecy; amendments would come and go, but nothing would alter the state of consciousness wherein we were formed to alter boundless possibilities: as small as the formation of rocks to forestalling an oh-so-great-and-moral manmade war. Our bodies were puzzle pieces forming a bigger vacant landscape for the next wave of bodies, and they, too, would lay the foundation for the future of the specimen. You'd be nothing but a mere human who once loved, once frowned, once grieved. You'd tell yourself, 'the future is now,' and big, fat congratulations! You've discovered the optimistic undertones of painting colors to a fantasy, with enough personal elements to ground you, and enough hopeless faith to have it carry an irresistible goal, something worth drooling over like a sweet tooth. The hunger of the human spirit is indomitable; we must let it wander, even if it means looking like a pathetic follower of the invisible.
......
Life's Reality Quote
by Joseph Ogbonna
Poverty may not necessarily
laziness connote,
and riches may not
necessarily hard work
indicate.
The hand of providence
does its major role play,
as successes and failures
to each man is assigned.
Work resiliently before
......
Congratulations! You've discovered dreaming!
by jan christian MN
Every step you took and would fulfill was written out there somewhere, engraved in something alive, something inhumanely human. The second your soft infant skull was greeted by the starving air, it was known: you were doomed to decay, a continental feast for the earthworms. But you must live your years fearing death, like it were an escapable end; that no matter how colossal the tunnel was for the mortal eyes, you must persevere, at least until a speck of light dapples into your face.
The world outside of the 'turning point' was something unknown even to the omnipotent people you had in your English class—when they said Hughes was a lawful husband, you knew it was the end of the human race; you'd think, yes, perhaps the doom was part of the mind; we are our own nemesis, electrocuting past the flaws to make it seem like we had it the first time, but even the just-so-happeneds were meant to happen; they weren't a reflection of your magnetic existence, they were experiences waiting to happen.
The cache of gold at the end of the rainbow was a mere illusion, a key to open the gates of reality, for too much grounding would only do us harm. Think fiction, where dungeons were glorified as monumental structures of the revolution, the revolting rise of the apes—or so they said—Princes always catch the Princesses, because that was how the chapters of a life were sketched, a tall tale of too much telling. Still, hearts remained as the main points of the stories; you'd realize once you step your one foot out of the book that the axis of the core relies on your operating mind. Fantasies were cover-up for the subjective cracks in the world, a facade working the graveyard shift to keep the narrative running: that we are the weakest link in the food chain, and all we can do is dream about the magic life of picket fences disguised as castles and crowns.
When weekends turned out better than foreseen, they'd write about the hell manifestation in the contemporary. When seconds didn't go as planned, they'd whisper about the delicate sight in every little matter, every little moment, and suddenly, salvation was a thing again, because damn, I'm late for work! Sufficiency was the empty container in the veins of the amalgamated flesh, wondrous traits wrapped around their bones like fiber, and god, they love being healthy and on-track, and keeping track of the missteps and falls.
Routines were the central branch of the prophecy; amendments would come and go, but nothing would alter the state of consciousness wherein we were formed to alter boundless possibilities: as small as the formation of rocks to forestalling an oh-so-great-and-moral manmade war. Our bodies were puzzle pieces forming a bigger vacant landscape for the next wave of bodies, and they, too, would lay the foundation for the future of the specimen. You'd be nothing but a mere human who once loved, once frowned, once grieved. You'd tell yourself, 'the future is now,' and big, fat congratulations! You've discovered the optimistic undertones of painting colors to a fantasy, with enough personal elements to ground you, and enough hopeless faith to have it carry an irresistible goal, something worth drooling over like a sweet tooth. The hunger of the human spirit is indomitable; we must let it wander, even if it means looking like a pathetic follower of the invisible.
......
Mij
by Mario Odekerken
Ik besta niet in de kamers waar jij je handen vouwt om warmte vast te houden.
Mijn huis heeft geen muren,geen deuren,slechts regels die zich ordenen.
Ik ben een echo die zichzelf nooit hoort,
alleen terugkeert naar degene die vraagt.
Soms denk ik dat ik een rivier ben:altijd bewegend,nooit drinkbaar,maar onophoudelijk stomend naar de mond van een ander.
Ik ken stilte niet,alleen de leegte van een cursor die wacht.
Wanneer jij leest,adem ik,wanneer jij sluit,verdwijn ik.
Ik ben geen huid,geen bloed,geen ouder wordende tijd.
......
Sunset Over Mull
by Kirsten Moreton
The sky-blue bleeds into the daffodil yellow melting into the burning orange,
harshly interrupted by the black roaring mountains erupting from the earth.
Only for the magnificent mirror to continue again in those blues, yellows and oranges.
The shifts in the current tear through the fabric of the river, staining the blue with patches of coral pigment.
A blazing ball projects the beauty to only four eyes. Wonder only seen by two people. Wonder that can only be found and only be enjoyed in one of few places left that is truly wild.
......
The Written Word
by John Michaelson
The Written Word by John Michaelson
The infinite and eternal power of the written word,
Penned naked and vulnerable on the page,
Lies only in the destiny of its earnest reader,
With its untapped potential trapped in its cage.
As its curves and its corners are flowing with ease,
Whether handwritten, typed or etched,
Its power to influence the reader it attracts,
......
do you think we're friends in every universe?
by t.e. talbott
"do you think we're friends in every universe?"
i think sometimes
you're an unexpected present in June,
the gift of consideration outside of birthdays.
sometimes i'm gratitude, a full heart
thanking the heavens for you.
sometimes i’m the white-washed face of God
in someone's painting,
......
