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Poetic Prose – subcategory of the Main Poetry category on Angie’s Diary | Online Magazine.
You fade slowly before my eyes, once so strong and vital, now you sleep in your chair, so tired you say, so tired. How long will you be with me before you have to go? How long will I feel your presence, your daily routines, your rants at things long past, but still alive within […]
You devil you, the darling of the hip crowd, the down and out crowd, the envy of frustrated stale academia. You changed ‘em buster, you challenged ‘em to face up to their impotence. Damn were you hot! But you earned it, yes you did. You took the beatings, you took the lost times, the lonely […]
I have an antique candy cane. But it’s still in mint condition. I wrote a book about bankruptcy. It ends after chapter 11. Some of my jokes are topical. Which are Jokes for external use only? I saw a milk carton that said 2% milk. I assume the other 98% was the carton. I have […]
Hard to believe, these things usually are, and if you’ve never experienced anything like this, you won’t believe it, but I do. My father told me one evening over dinner, he’d never told a soul before, not even mother when she was alive. It happened years ago, I was very young and mother had taken me to visit […]
My second hometown, not born there, just lived there many years. I know the streets, hills, signs, landmarks. A lot of struggle
We’ll strike out for adventure, we’ll wrap ourselves up in destiny. Feel the wind in your hair and desire in your veins.
They were Huckleberry Hound cufflinks, one of my favorite cartoon characters. I wore them to church one Sunday.
My memory begins with water in my nose. It is the earliest thing I can remember. Lake Champlain in Vermont, I am one and half years old in my little bathing suit. My parents are on their way across the country, my dad has a job waiting for him in Renton, WA at a large […]
It was another time, long ago and far away, but I still remember the feeling in the air—hope. I was just a kid, a little kid, but you could sense the optimism
I am the age of the wind, bent like the top of a costal pine tree, young as the flowers of spring, shaped like the clouds on a blustery morn