Wednesday Prose Poem: the rooms have us

Image by Prawny from Pixabay

Some rooms are becoming too loud, tempted not to follow solid pauses, I imagine most people listening have this cringey feeling, they rarely take care of their needs and misshape their housework. There are questions disguised as crazy rhymes which sound more like a paradox. Their point of view has expanded to fill the empty spaces with new unnatural sounds. And half a glance at the aesthetics pointed to an uncontrollable duration that gives a dramatic effect on the meaning. What do you imagine? I’m curious about your thoughts. Silence in your eyes confesses…perhaps nothing. We have run blind in…

image sketched by the author

Literary Impulse Day 28 Prompt: feed of hope

Saturday Poetry Prompt: repeatable

photo by Prashanthe on Flickr

No rest
without love,
no sleep
without dreams
of love —
be mad or chill
obsessed with angels
or machines,
the final wish
is love

Allen Ginsberg — Song

Profound were the incessant efforts on Việt Nam to stroll through unveiled far-fetched hands curving around in splitting cloudy skies where aggressive winds take your breath a brave walk of electrifying passion desperately counting the chances of death of a silent mind in a spinning world the closing decades of their nameless origin touched with care that sprung from feelings, desires, worries a serene pulsation to intensify the possible a readiness…

Wednesday Prose Poem: the colour says it all

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

Stood there and watch silently how colours change in three acts,

while the jester sets the scene in red mocking curtains and chocolate brown rugs. Spectators taking their seats waiting for their middle-to-late speech. Drowned in sound, tilted back, in an effort to breathe. Keep fighting the winter blue with more blue. Many layers of blue cover the background when the conductor stresses the pauses and ensembles the golden gestures with his hands. Strong communication with simple movements of his baton, results in yellow relays of the violinist for the bows to synchronize. …

Wednesday Prose Poem: where do the stories end up

Image by suju-foto from Pixabay

The keeper holds the first words like fractals in the sky and translated all your reasons to art. Wouldn’t it suffice to call it love? For the world outside his window, is sleeping, but he transcends to pure romantic dreams, stories of his secret places and glimpses from a writer’s world. And, still today, not confessing to poetry music, prohibiting parallel voices or even hidden whispers, while making tender sounds with sanitized conscience. He only possesses themes, a collection of memories, a set that has a musical variety. …

Joanna Vang

An emotional girl with an anxious mind

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