Prose Poems

These are prose poems and experimental poems.

Prose Poem: The Trouble with Poets
by Michael R. Burch

This morning the neighborhood girls were helping their mothers with chores, but one odd little girl went out picking roses by herself, looking very small and lonely. Suddenly the odd one refused to pick roses anymore because it occurred to her that being plucked might “hurt” them. Now she just sits beside the bushes, rocking gently back and forth, weeping and consoling the vegetation!



"Salat Days” is a poem I wrote about a barely edible weed called — take your pick — pokeweed, poke salad, poke sallet and poke salat. The poem “Salat Days” is followed by a prose version that might be called a short story, a personal essay or flash fiction or micro fiction.

Salat Days
by Michael R. Burch

Dedicated to the memory of my grandfather, Paul Ray Burch, Sr.

Quiet in the Forests of Night

quiet in the forests of night
watching with white eyes
alone in the darkness
waiting for the one
the pond was torn
in ripples that marked the shore
silent as the woods around it—
and the creak of the toads
it was day
the wings yielded movement
in the trees that came alive
and left us behind
flames once wore on us
every night as we walked home—
alone now they’ve withered
with memories made along the road
round and round
on winter grass we’re frozen

Songs of a New Morning

from the shore
where I can see it all
as it floats away
to some other land
where the sun continues to shine
for centuries
and treetops
sway in the wind
filling the grass
with wandering pollen
worn out
like a flag flown
for many years
alone here
where your lips once
had left a mark
I looked up
at the stones
and there opened a path
into the night
lit by torchlight

Time Management

She looks at me, crystal-eyed
She is Jodie Foster post Panic Room
calm voice, stoic face
“So what is time to you?”
“How do you feel about time?”
In my mind I think about
the million and one things I could do
with my time that do not include
talking about time, but I say
is never enough
is not within my control
And we let time pass
between us
the silent pauses like change
falling through pocket holes
lost in the seams
ghostly jingles.
And I take my time
because it seems I can

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