Last Commented Prose Poems (415)

He fancied himself a Garden King
But seeds were sown long before his arrival.
He tried enticing growth with tools of past plantings
That he horded hanging on the nails in his soul.
He teased the white coned lily
And smirked at the Red Velvet Rose.
He never felt the growing tool of tragedy that
Seduces the tears necessary to quench the thirst of seeds.
Arrogance reared its head as he danced in the streets shouting
"I am the Garden King".
He fever carried the tool of voice,
With tender tone, to nurture.
He never hefted the tool of silence
Needed for selfhood.
His soul ached,
To stir,
To caress
but empty souls produce no touch,
That prompting tickle that induces a zest for life.
And the seedlings of the white coned Lily
And the Red Velvet Rose, with her message of love,
Wait,
For the rustle of growing tools,
Humble steps from the Garden King.

His cradle was hewn from English trees
And all his roughneck days made time for heir adoration.
His backyard was a playground f0r loud dreams
And remembrances.
Now well worn shoes track through fields, That lend their way to hills rooted in his soul.
Thoughts of when he wore a warrior's shield making
Battlefields proud, invade.
Remembered are secrets buried long ago with his armor\

sits easy at the hearth of the Warrior in his smile.
His strength is renewed when in the presences of the talking stones
That spoke of Wisdom before His first cry
Ipon a resting hill, lakes appear water, once red from
The screams of desired Freedom.
and Battle sowards dipped in hopful Baptism.
He sees now that battlefields have returned to the green of their youth,free now from planed chos,Today his battlefields made proud are growing seeds of life.
A nd now he no longer steps through slaughtered bone and flesh.












upon a hillside

once I opened doors
That stood in pairs.
I blazed trails that were not there.
Roamed where never man had been,
Round the world and back again.
But there dwelt within my soul
An unobtrusive valour then.
I touched the stars on bended knee
And swam, with grace, the raging Sea.
Then came the waiting season,
A time that valour found its way
To other realms
And I could not find a
Door and travelled well worn paths
And swam in lakes instead of Sea,
Waiting, searching till valour found me.



i

Bobbie’s mom was preparing, in her mind
The scenario she wanted to present to Sr. Elizabeth,
That she had just finished saying the rosary
And hoped she would feel better after having done so.
Also that she had to catch the next bus

It was not difficult to see the puzzled but determined olok kin sisters’ face, Truly a social smile, forced at that.The ability of this nun to see clearly through false presentations in others
Never entered Bobbie’s mother’s mind, it was part of her
Superior sense of being. No one knew anything but her.
Siste\r Elizabeth’ smile consisted of a pleasant gritting of the teeth.



Her face was set flush within a black mesh bonnet,
A Bow tied neatly beneath her chin. \
A long, white cotton apron fixed to her chest with common pins
Overlay ed a long black dress that reached just above
he arch of a pair f black granny shoes
The notes of her bouncy step..

“I feel much better when I am spontaneous,
Because it comes from the heart”
An inspiring truth by the Dalai Lama
This is the way it should be
Living our lives by our hearts and moving free
Wise words truly soulfully smart
Freeing us from complications and trauma

But our spontaneity is used against us
The monsters wait for the butterfly to flit
Grabbing their bit
Gremlins hide causing innocence a fit
Evil lurks waiting for the free spirit
Sadly, we must admit

In a world of control, rules and rigidity
Being spontaneous has no validity
Instead we act the role of an adjutant
Forgetting about complete abandonment

Guarded, we only wish for the skies of blue
Which deepens our desire to pass through
Sometimes we break under the continued strain
Of desiring spontaneity only to retreat and refrain
Arcane knowledge spinning and tightening the chain
We still enlist caution as we try to rush forward
Spontaneity as the ideal to work toward

The monsters, gremlins and naysayers
Doomsayers, purveyors and soothsayers
Hide around the corners of society
Creating anxieties of a fearful variety
Assuring our role as supporting players
In the dark tragedy of human drama

Dearest Dalai Lama
We are kept at bay
Matters of our heart falling into disarray
Safely we keep our motions very guarded
And our spontaneous love nature disregarded

Secretly policing our own freedom
Devoid of a reality or any wisdom
Making spontaneous actions fearful
Bringing emotions that are tearful
Committing crimes against humanity
Combining treachery with insanity

So that acting from our heart
Spontaneously
Slowly and steadily falls apart
Becoming mostly gripped by fear
Simultaneously

Some days are good
others bad
Sometimes I'm happy
but mostly sad

I remember times
that went before
The regrets come forth
more and more

The things I wish
that I had done
Life could surely
have been more fun

But what the hell
get a grip
In my life
this is just a blip

Tomorrow again
the sun will shine
Then everything
will be just fine

You are my guiding light, a star, a child.!!
Your spirit in me, you were to be my destiny.!!
You showed me strength, no weakness, just understanding.!!
In my thoughts always, never leaving.!!
Though torn apart, always in my heart.!!
Until my end, then re-united.!!

For my lost angel

I feel....me. dark. morose. angsty. it is my life. it is my world. i live in a world where i shall find someone who can tolerate my angst and issues and all that it entails and can wrap themselves around it sealing it within themselves and essentaily taking me into themselves to blend into a perfect union. That will not end in tears and angst and issues of the mind but in a perfect serendipitous union of two minds that do not question the turning of the earth but dance with it to become a singularity moving in tandem with mother and her beautyful spin.

I have sailed these waters for far too long. I am so close to wrapping myself with the chains that hold my ship to these turbulent tides. I am tired of sailing into port and when they hear the name of my mighty vessel, they turn their backs to me. Casting me back into the ocean's vastness. I am not welcome in this port either. I am weary of sailing. I am weary with hunger and thirst. I am weary. I grow close to death and wish for nothing less than the bay of the pigs.
I shall sail into calypso's harbor to be entranced into the form of the swine i hate so. To be loved for a mere moment before she turns on me and turns me into something vile and used for the meat eaten by man. Better to be consumed than to live sailing the world with no bed to call my own or a place to drop anchor. A woman to welcome me from my voyage through the waters of death, vastness that drives men to madness. Into the west, perhaps. Into the Gray Havens. Deep into the underworld where only Hades welcomes me. I am ready to give up. I'm tired of my deppressive state and darkness, the natural reaction, being unwelcome and uncompassioned. I'm tired of giving my soul to someone to judge and being judged unworthy. I'm tired of them looking at me as vile as if i'm found under a rock, white and wriggling. The look of disgust on their face. I wish they could feel the pain within me at their look, at how they respond to me. But it doesnt matter to them or almost anyone else. I am a monster to them. And so i wander the social sea looking for someone who will love me. As of now, only calypso with her brood of swine loves me. Kiss me and turn me into something consumable. To escape this Odyssey of eternal solitude. I grow weary. I am so done. Done. Done.

I walk a world of shadows disguised as light.
where men smile and act on whatever they desire.
Where dead men walk through graveyards of the mind.
Where those who are your blood, spill your own to save their own.
I am a phantom witnessing the roiling seas of human filth.
Those who say,
blessed art thou" spit words of excement.
And call it "righteousness".
We pile the heads of the damned onto walls of paper
To show all who stands against the mob
It is not okay to be a Tory.
The planks of the sailing ship are rotten
and bleeding.
we re called it "culture".
But the smell of "human" decay.
It sickens me.
Every day is another slice into the body of
Human "civilization".
When will we finally sink below the waves
to fill the stomachs of those already chained?
When will the world finally be reduced to cinders?
Maybe then, we can rebuild?
Or maybe, we will cease to be.