Last Commented Prose Poems (415)

Who keeps us smiling with with a
thousand stories and one?
Whom do the maidens choose
as the knight to be won
Who keeps the heart alive in his
every written poem
Why do the ladies sit weeping
by the phone
It is the one who keeps us poets
always asking for more
His name is Morgan..and
He's much much more!
Cafe2010

I come from nest on ridge top high,
I speak with such a shrill cry,
And soar out into the blue sky,
To search with a sharp eye.

For thirty miles I fly around,
Or float like in a dream,
Past woods and fields; all common ground,
Follow a river upstream.

Till last my flight is now complete,
When my prey comes in my sight,
A banquet of fresh blood and meat,
Meet my talons I will smite.

I cry out fear before I plunge,
For panic is my good friend,
At last I swoop my wings and lunge,
For death comes quick in the end.

With strong curved beak I snap and tear,
Ripping clean through fur and hide,
The still throbbing heart of the hare,
Staring up with its eyes wide.

And here and there a muffled moan,
Such a whimpering poor soul,
A raptor by its fierceness known,
Only hunger to console.

I set off along the faint trail
it was one I had not noticed before
plunging me deep into unknown territory
stomach clenched in excitement as I strode on

Tall old Oaks, Aspens, Chestnuts and Beeches
cloaked the way ahead, I was aware of silence
rather a nervous paused silent as if holding it's breath
everything seemed to be waiting for something to happen

Deeper into the woods I went, admiring the new slightly odd
flora and fauna scattered about, beautiful flowers blooming
mushrooms two feet and more wide with red and yellow spots
sturdy enough to sit on while I took a rest

Slipping into sleep I travelled even deeper
until I came to the heart of these mysterious woods
a shout went up from elves, fairies and pixies
she is here at last, our soon to be crowned new queen

A magical glen with a throne in the middle
red carpet made from red flower petals strewn
jewels most wondrous glinting in the trees
birds so colourful that they dazzle as they fly

Clasping me by the hand, the pixies lead me to the throne
once I am seated, they serve me with golden nectar
tasty berries and cakes of flowers on leaves for plates
full of such excitement I gaze around the clearing

A place of tranquillity and majestical splendour
little houses in the trees and small fairy lights
standing sentinel was an ancient gnarled Oak
branches waving as it moved towards me

Shaking as it drew closer and stopped before me
an elf handed it a crown that glittered with gems
turning to me it said let the crowning commence
with great ceremony he uttered the words

"Has any here just cause as to why she shouldn't be crowned?"

A deathly silence prevailed not even a murmur
Then turning to me he placed it on my head
all around were now on bended knee, heads bowed
The oak said "Now you are our ordained queen"

As a great cheer went up I startled back awake
the clearing, throne and all the little people vanished
All that was left behind was a feather of wonderful hues
and the crashing of a startled stag fleeing into the trees

Visions of the Goddess have danced in my head
She writhed and twisted as if I had her abed
The shock of awe was nothing to dread
She has filled my dreams as water on the “bled”
Now her magic fills me in her stead
Leading me onward where cowards have fled
Lading me with verse no others have said
For the gift of her blessings my life I’ve plead
To share this bounty even after I’m dead.

FEAST OF THE SOUL
June 19, 2011

A feast of the soul I drink it in
Famished and supping these delights,
Succulent and sweet these meats of glory
Sating that which for a morsel,
Voraciously consumed is the pick of this harvest
Ripe and tender is the fruit at table
Heavy with the blessings of Gaya,
The aromas are subtle the flavors a mélange
Let there be no end to the banquet.

What is Poetry ? It is a projection of the mind that
is created on paper in many forms and types we
may not know of yet. The poem form is like music
and mathematics, it has similar overtones as it works
by formula, a poem can be a great work like that
of William Shakespeare or simply written by either
you or I, it comes in many forms in a story, lyric
narrative and sometimes completely unknown.
It is how we conceive it, we are all capable of such
literature, everything we write is a form of poetry,
When a poem is written our critics sometimes say
'That is not a poem', how can we really say that as
it is up to the writer to decide, what is not a poem
may still qualify as a poem in one form or another,
the answer to this riddle is it is different to the rest
of poetry as we all know it, we all need to accept it
as we cannot discriminate against it.

In the 1900's to 1950's, it was amazing what you could
buy for a penny (1d), a bag of sweets was a popular buy
chewing gum, a trip on a bus, a newspaper, postage stamp,
lemonade and many other things, children would get a penny
for pocket money and the clever child would save it up until
there was enough to buy something of greater value, as most
children the money would burn a hole in their pockets, so then
they would ask their parents for more money, they would
say not till the following week, that is what it was like
back then, children respected their parents and were very
greatful for what they had done in raising them well.

CS women rock though I
may not be on their boat
But if they threw me a
line in this stormy sea
you know I'd surely float
Once on board their pirate
ship I'd man the sails so
fine
And when they lowered the
flag in the fog of night
I'd love them til they'er
blind~

Back in the 19th century, the darkness was brought to life
by the gaslight, these lights were a softer option to the
brightly lit arc lamps which made the streets look like
daylight, if you looked at them too long it could make you
blind because of it's extreme brightness, they were later

removed in favour of the gaslight which became a romantic
light for lovers who would often meet at night under these
lights, they also looked spooky in the foggy streets of
London, were in the night, crimes were committed by the
likes of Jack the Ripper, and other criminals , and you

could hear the police whistle being blown while chasing
a criminal, in the distance you could hear the musical sound
of the barrel organ at a nearby pub. The gaslight was a part
of London's night life and a big part of British history. Once
the electric light was discovered the gaslight vanished forever.

I rail against my feeble body that once was so swift
despair when tasks take three times longer now
it crept up on me seemly overnight, this thing they call age,
it pulls me down with it's agonising slowness

Always been the adventurer travelling the world
lived in some strange places with different rules
strived to live each minute to the max, exalt in life
taking no as no answer, digging under the surface

Many wondrous sights I have seen during my time
the miracle of birth, so fresh and new each time
so full of promise, a whole life yet to be lived
all that's before you is a blank sheet waiting patiently

I know for me that sheet is very full of doings
life is for living and boy, I have lived it in full
yet still I rail against age itself and the slowness
my mind can still take flight when it likes

Yet this shell in which I abide is crumbling
each year I seem to get slower and slower
such a pain, a burden and a strain on me
oh, to be young once more and be able to be fast