Prose Poem: Home

Prose Poem

Home

Going home.  I’m going home.  A common phrase, everyone uses it. It means something different to everyone in the end.  Some are talking about that building where they sleep and eat.  Home, or is it just a house.  Maybe, they are referring to that group of people they live with…family or room-mates.

Prose Poem: you walk on

Prose Poem

you walk on

There are days, when for no special reason, you wonder, what it’s all about.  Why were you born, where are you going, are you going anywhere…you don’t know, you don’t have any answers only questions, so you walk on.

Prose Poem: 4:30 a.m. silence

Prose Poem

4:30 a.m. silence

Silence, nothing but my computer humming, my brain reading and the sound of gentle rain falling outside my window.  The sound of traffic and the factory rumble swallowed up by some mysterious entity leaves this loud silence.

Heavy clouds hang in the sky.  Someone will be walking through the fog in a couple of hours, but for me, those will still be low-hanging clouds.  Strange how things can be so different, depending upon where you’re sitting.  From your observation point, inside your mind, you look at the world, but it’s not the same place I live, I see, I feel or hear, even when you’re standing beside me.

Silence, not a hoot of an owl or a twitter of a bird.  The air is heavy, waiting for the dawn.  The moonlight and star glow swallowed up in the black sky counterpoint the street lights in the distance, hazy ghost like beings on the horizon.  Read a few blogs, read come comments…silent words with lots of inner sound.  Words and silence, communication in silence.

I’ll go make some tea.

 

Monday Poetry Prompt #23: Emulation

The WDBWP’s challenge this week…take a reading of Kahlil Gibran: “work using a poem and speaking with the voice, style, rhythm and form the poet uses.

Khalil Gibran

The People to the Prophet

Almustafa, your ship has come, and soon you will leave us to return to home far from the bright shores of Orpalese.  Twelve years you’ve walked within our walls, twelve years you’ve walked to the hill outside our walls, searching seaward: awaiting  to see your ship plow through the mist.  Yet now that the day has come when you must depart, you hesitate although you rejoice.

You’ve known cold loneliness, but you’ve known love too.  You’ve realized that your pain has increased your wisdom.  Your pain will forever be with you and will forever bind you to our city, your memories are the children born from the many difficulties you’ve lived in a land not your own!  You wonder then how can you leave us, for they and we and you are forever united.

Worry not,  Almustafa, that your departure will cut you out of our hearts, or we out of yours.  You cannot cast us off like a garment, nor we pretend that you are not closer to us than our own souls.  We are each a part of the other’s intimacy and each a part of the other’s reality.  The eagle in truth may fly alone, but it’s cry is heard from on high and all heed the shadow that crosses the sun, though they may not touch it.  Your memory will be for us as the eagle, distant and mighty but forever present.

Your parting words will forever remain deeply embedded within our souls, your lessons learned, through the shining truths that your honey lips uttered in answer to our last request, O Prophet, will bind us together forever.  Thus your wisdom shall not perish, for we shall keep your truths as our treasure and an heirloom for our children and our children’s children, this day will last throughout eternity.

@)—>—>—

My copy of “The Prophet” with 12  illustrations from the author’s original drawings was printed by: Kustannusosakeythtio Otava Keuruu Finland 1976, Member of Finnprint.  Distributed by Heinemann : London

Prose Poem: This way…

Prose Poem

This way…

Grey autumn day. Rain falling, wind chilling grey autumn day.

Everyone seems to be rushing somewhere inside their car.  The children, make finger drawings on fogged up windows.

A man looks at me and seems to wonder what I might find interesting enough to photograph in the middle of the road.

‘She should photograph a monument, or the trees!’ he seems to be thinking.  He watches:  I’m obviously focusing on the ground.

Grey autumn day.  Rain falling, wind chilling grey autumn day.  I see an arrow painted on the road.  It indicates which way to go, under the autumn sky.

Day one: OctPoWriMo

FRIDAY FICTIONEERS: 27 September 2013

Copyright – Rich Voza

Friday Fictioneers

The Dream

Through a misty fog I walked; I came upon a clearing.  In the middle of the clearing I saw three doors, each a different color.  I saw each door stood alone, where might they lead?

I walk around each one.  I wondered:  could this be some strange display for a hardware store in the middle of a forest?

A voice began to recite: “Red is for passion, white is mourning, blue is cold winter’s death…”

Another said: “Red is for passion, white is for purity, blue is melancholy…”

I realized that my choice was between the Eastern and Western symbology!

Genre: Prose Poem
Word count: 100