Hear Ye. Hear Ye. Here we
propose to posit prose poetry,
forming forms of continuous connectivity
to communicate considerable
contemplative reflectivity.

Simply put, we pose this where
prose poetry is what you'll hear
when wondering where the time went
while reading such rhyme wonderments
as oft we've wrought, and revealed thusly;
each whit of wit written Hieronymously.


Would that I could write a poem like Prospice
and read it to those that I know now in hospice, 
but I do more clowning around than Bob Browning, 
so my wit is just a bit more funny sounding. 

Sometimes I standup, and sometimes I sit, lest 
someone else should die by my unfailing witness. 
My witness perceives those who grieve, and rejoices 
with those who'd propose to give laughter their voices. 

Laughter hereafter, and 'til Death do us part, 
will linger when fingers are pulled, and we start 
thinking about stinking, then running to places
we find when a behind's wind breaks in our faces.