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.

Yellow & Blue

I can run, and I can Hyde 

Park it here. Enjoy the ride 

vicariously. See Boston's Globe 

projected on your frontal lobe. 

There are things I cannot say 

due to events of that one day. 

I cannot say that you should run 

for love, or money, or just for fun. 

I cannot say where you should go 

to get away from ... Well, you know 

I cannot say who, what, why, how 

you go. I surely don't know, now. 

All that I can say as one 

runner is, I have to run. 

Just the facts, ma'am, just the facts. 

Yesterday, at TJ Max, 

I stopped to shop for a new shirt. See, 

the one I'd worn was torn and dirty, 

and since I'm not a real bright fellow, 

I picked a tight light shirt, quite yellow, 

in fact. It acts as an alert 

to passers by. Why? My new shirt 

illuminates my gait, and jogs 

the sight of those who drive in fogs. 


Nimble minds, accumulate! 

Cumulonimbus clouds crowd the sky. 

Runners fly by, staccato cadenced. 

Sweet sweat fragrances the air. There,

on the ground! Then, the sound stops time

in its tracks. Traces of faces are drawn

on dented cement pavements. Curb

your enthusiasm. Time marches on