Last Commented Prose Poems (415)

Flaming hot horizon
Sunlit wings stream bright white
Over misty morning moisture meadow mayhem
Kissing away darkness from night

Flowers raise up erectly
Again blooming on long
While birds sing over and again
An old-fashioned sing-a-long song

Butterflies flit and flirt
In meadows of painted spring dawn
Waving wonder in each wisp
Childlike dreams of Someone

"Are you teaching him a lesson?" She asked, eager to please,
As I tried to keep from barfing, my head between my knees.
"You hung on like a windsock! It just tickled us to death!"
Is she serious? I'm drooling, I can't hardly catch my breath.

"When you leaned yourself up forward and kissed him 'tween the ears,
The whole class just went crazy! I guess you heard the cheers!"
That must how I broke my nose and split my upper lip,
But I guess it looked like kissing', "I just love your horsemanship!"

"The way you tame the savage beast, the techniques that you're usin'".
When my tailbone hit the cantle, I felt my sphincter loosen.

"You reckon you could show us how you did it once again?
Be nice to get some photos." What? To show my next of kin?
I guess there goes my living will. I'm a victim of the forces.
The way this looks, I might as well be shoein horses.

"It was really so impressive, the way you made him load
At full gallop,sittin' backwards, from a way on down the road".
So that's how I hit the trailer, I think I lost a pound of flesh.
Thank goodness it was rusty and my tetanus shot was fresh.

"Could you show us that maneuver where you circled like a fan
With nothin' but your buckle touchin',
Holdin' out both your hands?"
Now where'd I put my Dramamine?
It was here the other day,
I'm feelin' kinda woozy,
Did Brannaman start out this way?

I thought it would be easy to be a horse clinician.
Now it's gonna take a miracle to explain this exhibition.
How I really was in full control, above the rising panic,
Though I looked like the propeller on the back of the Titanic!

"It's what I call the daisy," I modestly explained.
"It takes a master trainer to achieve what I've attained."
"You should concentrate on basics, skip the fancy stuff," I warned.
Besides, I thought, any gunsel can accidentally hook his buckle on the horn!

One thing opens an expanding mind
Tiniest little dove wings you will find
Season of promise season of joy
Each blossom becomes a decoy

Trapped by their dazzling brilliance
Peaceful does practice resilience
Lured into each others tranquility
Breathing deep the odor of fertility

One more thing to love each day
Sun rays shining and showing the way
Even briefly as the rains drag past
These moment of contentment last

Now such that I search in life
Not mired down by all its strife
Held captive by your beautiful grace
Tens of thousands filling my space

If all I need to surrender is my will
Be basked in the beauty you distill
I will not try and leave till when
Only when my heart is filled again

Such a ruckus of noise and tiny wings
Birds and bees and blossoms brings
From the nectar of trees so adorn
The sweet substance of life is born

My face shines with candid mirth
Pleasurable as my mind give birth
How rich a square of mosaic tile
You paint upon my face a smile

It is because I get such pleasure
When life gives me a rule to measure
My joyfulness needs not a disguise
Sitting under cherry blossom skies

How much loneliness the truth can cause
When even the night is filled with stars
And just for a moment the universe will pause
Equally deep inside my head are memoirs
The lush green grass of a summer meadow
The soft circling curves of a gull in flight
Painted on a canvas as rich as Van Gogh
A row of painted ladies dancing into sight
From far away and back against distance shores
I watch the passing clouds changing forms
Reminding me once again these fanciful tours
Also darkening at times and passing storms
When oh when will love again be sitting by me
That I can reach up and touch her falling hair
Cascading like waterfalls and little ribbons be
All the colors of prisms and rainbows flare
Such is the brilliance that a star can make
With just the right distance and space
Such is the destiny that my life shall take
To continue on this journey and life I trace
Carefully trying to keep what's center in focus
Such that life is only a true balancing act
Where one misstep from a dream that woke us
Is all that guides us between real and abstract

The Corona Virus

On Earth there is a virus,
A plague that’s called mankind,
It is of course the human race,
The blind led by the blind.
They fought for Gods of money,
showed every kind of greed,
And wanted more of everything,
Of things they didn’t even need.
They poisoned all the oceans,
And all the land and air,
Religion taught them nothing,
Most people didn’t care.
A madness gripped the people,
Like nothing seen before,
A selfishness unheard of,
Every group wants more.
And boys were girls,
And girls were boys,
Insanity reigned supreme.
They forgot our Earth as mother,
In their dystopian world of dreams.
But a mother has her limits,
We all had pushed too far,
In desperate self-protection,
Her anti-bodies streamed,
She had to kill the human pest,
That all the rest may live.
Number one is the beginning,
And number nine completes.
And nineteen is the number,
With which she must try and defeat,
The human virus killing her,
Our Earth beneath our feet.

By Mel Beasley

He wouldn't be hankerin after fancy deserts if he'd take more of his meals at home.

If she doesn't know what she's missing, she can't be missing much.

Tell her to keep the cats and get her boyfriend fixed.

You could look up disgusting in the dictionary and there'd be a picture of this.

I never go any place where they have more forks than food

Should I drop U a note
naturally again l am eating alone
waiting on a bowl of gumbo.
Ur a no-show
likely doing the three famous maestros
Larry, Curly and I hope
U choke
on Moe.
I'm sorry but feeling pretty low
losing my Piedmont pillow.
I remember U long ago
U tried to corner the market playing the blues on a banjo
Made sense nobody knows
Maybe since lock in cellar sits a dusty jazz piano
Then Lock jaw denied U fame and fortune blowing the piccolo
always known for Ur solos
this was before wearing out Ur welcome on the cello,
Started as a joke
writings odes
to The Twilight Zone
staring the fallen saint, Billie Joe
who had an episode
when she lost her halo
when rain turned to snow
It slipped from her dome
while dipping her bent toe
into the dark cosmos
but caught the eye of fire breathing hippo
in mid-pounce on a giant translucent minnow
So the story goes
like a Viking's fine paid thru the nose.
Plunging halo
now traveling at speed of light heads for ground zero
was caught on film in slow mo
oddly snatched up by a swooping sparrow,
but dropped like a dirty ho
on seeing a dancing scarecrow
doing the tango
with a Hispanic gringo.
Never scare off any crows
Each of them having a mind of their own
Scavengers are at home
grilling up some squirming lizard toads.
on the sun baked roads,
like on US 95 thru Mosco
not in Russia but Idaho
and yet the halo continued to roll
for years through God only knows
til it finally landed in Chicago
on the Antiques Roadshow
shown off by an old crone
or St Joe incognito
with big nose
who lived alone
making a cameo
drooled over its host
a fat sweaty fellow
who smelled like pork roast
sampled his ear lobe
on toast
out doing Van Gogh
Anyway my hat off to poor bloke,
with necklace yoke
now a foot off the flo,
at end of his rope,
swinging low
to tune of Desperado
fading in and out on solid state radio.
Once again The Silent Landline Telephone
takes another mofo.
dreams he gives up the ghost
but wakes up surfing down an ice flow
in hills of Glasgow
tripping too much Gingko
staring past where horizon aglow
but alas seeing nothing that doesnt show

Life is not a poem that
makes a perfect rhyme
Our heart is ever a mystery
that puzzles our natural
mind
We seek meaning from without
from a thousand shifting winds
Enlightened by our virtues and
captive to our sins
Shot through and through with
confusion as each war can testify
It's the reason we dread the morning
and why the starving child does cry
O, we hope some genius comes along
or some philosopher with special wit
With them we'll put our trust when at
their feet we'll sit
But as this old world keeps on turning
We pray someone reviews our case
It's then that still small voice whispers,
'It's all a test of faith.'

Come gather round the campfire mates and listen for a while,
And I'll tell you all the story of the man who never smiled.
He was somewhat of a rover, and his friends all called him John
He hailed from southern New South Wales, a place called Wollongong.

Well he finished up in Queensland where he met this bird named Jean
And together then the pair set out to do the Brisbane scene.
But within a month she left him, stony broke, without a cent
With nothing but a memory,(and a bill for two weeks rent!)

So further North, to Anakie, John chased his silver lining
On Queensland's famous sapphire fields he tried his hand at mining.
Well he made a quid at this new lurk, became a man of means
And with his new found wealth set out to find his love it seems.

Now he got as far as Rocky where he thought he'd stop a while
And took a job as fencer (just to help to pass the time.)
But alas, he didn't last long for he clocked the overseer
And it was round about this time he started on the beer.

Then his bird wrote him a letter asking him to come and get her
Up at Tully (she was with another bloke)
In the bar there at the station getting stuck into a ration
Of Bacardi. (That's the stuff they drink with Coke.)

Well she went with him to Townsville and they found a little flat
And it seemed at last that things had turned out right
But again she up and left him while he was asleep (God rest him)
Not a single word, just vanished in the night.

Now poor old John just went to pieces and got stuck into the grog
For to him (at least) it seemed his life was over.
So he boozed up day and night, they say he looked a flamin'fright
It was a miracle if ever he was sober!

Some folk said that he was "queer"while others blamed it on the beer
And it's 20 years (they say) now since he smiled
He had made and spent a fortune on a bird who had ignored him
I tell you mates, women! Just ain't worth your while.

Well I guess I'd better leave now as I've still a ways to go
Destination? I don't really know, I'm following my nose
So I guess I'll see you round mates as I've stayed here far too long
What's my name you ask? I thought you knew, it's John..from Wollongong.

"when I buried hate
and then forgave
a poem grew
around the grave"


The old man appeared surly, because he WAS surly. He spent the latter part of the day as he had it's commencement, trying to fit in.

Wilbur was a town much like any other. It had once been a destination. Now it was a way to another way. Viewed from an elevated pass, it was not unlike a medical sketch of the human heart. An arterial way in, a mixing chamber .. and a road out. As with any heart, women were found there. But that's another story.

The man studied the faces of the men who drank with him. A shot glass was swallowed by his hand before his throat made sure. Cigar smoke hung heavy, and a card game pitched and rolled around the workings of his ear. All his work was done a town ago. The spoils lay in a bag by his feet under the table. Every now and then, when it took his fancy to do so, he felt down for his holster. It was a cold day in a God forsaken town, but the still warm barrel bestowed a peace on him.

The old man had wounds. The kind only whiskey could cauterise. His scars visible only to the workings of his mind. He was the second to the last one born, toiling for food on his daddy's farm, scratching an existence from dust and hopelessness.

A blacksmith will impart wisdom to a man, if you are fortunate enough to know one of even temper. Metal is very much like character. Some wilt in the furnace of tribulation, some are made stronger. Some, it turns out, are even remade by terrible pain.

The old man's story would be told in the newspapers and wanted signs. In the throats of story tellers and in the cautionary sermons of learned men. But the true nature of his business was between him and his father. He didn't rob that bank and kill those men to take something. He was giving something away.

His name.