Tag Archives: prose

Distraction Button





The button is pressed,

suddenly your off on

an unknown quest.

But where is it that you  are off to?

What’s over here,

this is new.

You blink your eyes,

and you are mesmerized

by the twinkling lights.

You stare in amazement,

until the wonder is gone.

It’s time to move on.

You take a moment and

look around and realize

how far you’ve wandered.

The game distraction plays

is one it plays to win,

hoping that you will forget

where you have been.

Distraction, a wonderful

web it weaves,

leading you further and

further away.


The World through Henry David Thoreau’s Eyes

Epitaph On The World

Here lies the body of this world,
Whose soul alas to hell is hurled.
This golden youth long since was past,
Its silver manhood went as fast,
An iron age drew on at last;
‘Tis vain its character to tell,
The several fates which it befell,
What year it died, when ’twill arise,
We only know that here it lies.

Henry David Thoreau

Tribute to Nelson Mandela






This is a Poem ‘Invictus’ (Unconquered, Undefeated) by William Henley. Great South African Leader Nelson Mandela (Madiba)  was inspired by the poem, and had it written on a scrap of paper on his prison cell while he was incarcerated for 27 years on Robben Island.

I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.


Inspiration from Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson


If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can warm me, I know that is poetry.  If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.   From a letter to Thomas Wentworth Higginson

Although Emily Dickinson lived a secluded and outwardly uneventful life, a spinster in the family homestead at Amherst, Massachusetts, her poems are evidence of the extraordinary range and intensity of her inner life.  Virtually unpublished (through her own preference) in her lifetime, she was a truly original voice in poetry, both in her metrical innovations and in her ability to fuse word, image, and thought with marvelous compression and economy.

Hope is the Thing with Feathers

Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without the words,

And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,

And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me.







There are times I find it hard to breathe,

thinking of the love I really need.

Feeling unworthy of that special

someone to hold.

Dancing with strangers

has become too familiar,

disguising the real person inside.

Tripping over myself,

trying to mend the pieces

of a broken soul.

Waiting for that  one man

to pick me up in his arms.

My life like scenes in a movie,

not intended for innocent eyes.

Performing with a  smile while inside

my heart is ripping apart.

Take me now before its too late,

for I’m not sure how much

more of this life I can tolerate.


Poetry by Tammy More @ 2013

The Merchant Poet of New England

James Russell Lowell


In the year 1639 Percival Lowle, or Lowell, a merchant of Bristol, England, landed at the little seaport town of Newbury, Mass.   

We generally speak of a man’s descent.  In the case of James Russell Lowell’s ancestry it was rather an ascent through eight generations.

Percival Lowle’s son, John Lowell, was a worthy cooper in old Newbury; his great-grandson was a shoe-maker, his great-great-grandson was

the Rev. John Lowell of Newburyport, the father of the Hon. John Lowell, who is regarded s the author of the clause in the Massachusetts Constitution abolishing slavery.


The Poet

He who hath felt life’s mystery

Press on him like thick night,

Whose soul hath known no history

But struggling after light;–

He who hath seen dim shapes arise

In the soundless depths of soul,

Which gaze on him with meaning eyes

Full of the mighty whole,

Yet will no word of healing speak,

Although he pray night-long,

“O, help me, save me! I am weak,

And ye are wondrous strong!”–

Who, in the midnight dark and deep,

Hath felt a voice of might

Come echoing through the halls of sleep

From the lone heart of Night,

And, starting from his restless bed,

Hath watched and wept to know

What meant that oracle of dread

That stirred his being so;

He who hath felt how strong and great

This Godlike soul of man,

And looked full in the eyes of Fate,

Since Life and Thought began;

The armor of whose moveless trust

Knoweth no spot of weakness,

Who hath trod fear into the dust

Beneath the feet of meakness;–

He who hath calmly borne his cross,

Knowing himself the king

Of time, nor counted it a loss

To learn by suffering;–

And who hath worshipped woman still

With a pure soul and lowly,

Nor ever hath in deed or will

Profaned her temple holy–

He is the Poet, him unto

The gift of song is given,

Whose life is lofty, strong, and true,

Who never fell from Heaven;

He is the Poet, from his lips

To live forevermore,

Majestical as full-sailed ships,

The words of Wisdom pour.

From Lowell’s Poetical Works Copyright 1892




Rain- a refreshing sound,

as the dewdrops hit the asphalt ground.

A  soft and subtle start,

like the gentle beat of a heart.

Slowly it’s pace increasing,

louder and louder the tune.

Nature singing a melodious song,

happy are we to sing along.

Rain-a meditating voice,

whispering in the air.

If you listen and let yourself hear,

you will be in sync with the universal flow.

Rain- now a thundering roar,

no fear- quiet your mind,

release your tears,

for they are just dew drops

on the asphalt ground.

When the rain’s tune has ended,

and the sun  decides to shine,

the dew drops that once were there,

soon will disappear.

If you close your eyes,

you may still hear

the rain’s echo in your ears.


Poetry by Tammy More @ 2013

The give…

Pay it forward Thursday. Sharing this poem from blacktopprophet’s blog. Enjoy!

The Blacktop Prophet

I wrote poems for prisoners
that were much freer than I
considered it my business
to question freedoms ire
left open interpretation
sought a song to bye and bye
gave an old bum knowledge
he’d much rather have my time

and I’ve thrown away poems
that should have met your ear
instead I hid them safely
beneath a whispers drear
should have spoke in turn
gave aloud the thoughts I had
but an old bums’ wisdom
turned my happy sad


©2013 Cornelious “See” Flowers

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In the Words of Rumi


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All day I think about it, then at night I say it.

Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?

I have no idea.

My soul is from elsewhere, I’m sure of that,

and I intend to end up there.

This drunkenness began in some other tavern.

When I get back around to that place,

I’ll be completely sober.  Meanwhile,

I’m like a bird from another continent,

sitting in this aviary.

The day is coming when I fly off,

but who is it now in my ear who hears my voice?

Who says words with my mouth?

Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul?

I cannot stop asking.

If I could taste one sip of an answer,

I could break out of this prison for drunks.

I didn’t come here of my own accord, and I can’t leave that way.

Whoever brought me here will have to take me home.

This poetry, I never know what I’m going to say.

I don’t plan it.

When I’m outside the saying of it,

I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.

We have a huge barrel of wine, but no cups.

That’s fine with us.  Every morning

we glow and in the evening we glow again.

They say there’s no future for us.  They’re right.

Which is fine with us.


Poem from The Essential Rumi


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Three frogs hang out on my porch,

What is their purpose,

Who is the source?

Looking at me with those bug eyes,

wondering if there is a prince inside.

Why are they here?

I’m no one special,

my porch is not gold.

Will they stay until I’m old and gray,

or  someday hop away.

These frogs are a mystery,

hope they don’t decide to talk

because that would be freaky.

Maybe they are here to send a message,

or show me a sign.

Whatever the deal,

it’s only a matter a time before it’s revealed,

until then-

here they will stay,

these three frogs of mine.


Poetry by Tammy More @ 2013