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One good Reason NOT to do Prose on this poetry Forum

SOMEWHERE IN Laos, May 1962

“Lieutenant-Commander Kemp!” called Captain Siegel.
“Sir? came my sleep drunken reply.
“Kemp! You aren’t of much use here at this post.”
“How many Commies have you killed yesterday?”
“None, Sir! That’s not in my job description; I’m a medic . . . .”
“Oh, blow it out your bunghole, Kemp!”
“Yes, Captain Sir. Can do.”

Fifteen minutes later, he had signed my transfer to a new post, and an hour later I found myself on my way to Hamburg, Germany, assigned to security, standing guard at the American General Consulate’s main entrance, facing the beautiful Alster, a lake dotted with ducks, swans, and sailboats. All that was in stark contrast with the snake-invested jungle.

Hamburg,13 hours later:
For Pete’s sake! They had me stand guard dressed like a circus monkey, with an enlisted sailor’s headdress that looked like a white upside-down dog food bowl, instead of my officer’s head “cover.” “Here--hold this,” said the passing janitor, handing me his broom.
“Aye aye,” I said, wondering how I should address the fellow who looked like an admiral in his gold-braided ornamental uniform but held a made-in-Korea dustpan.

“Hello Sailor,” said the female voice that reminded me of my wife’s. Being an American male, I felt compelled to inspect the vivacious blonde--with legs that didn’t seem to start or end at the crotch but somewhere in heaven. “Hello,” I replied, using that well-practiced pick-up line to great effect--and with that we had made a date. Fortunately, she was not much for small talk—she was an action gal. Let’s float my boat,” she whispered hoarsely. Then, “Let’s go sailing,” she came right out with it, hotly whispering into my ear her commitment to a man in uniform.

“Right here and now,” I panted, having my mind on other matters. “Yes,” she panted back. “My daddy keeps a boat right there, by the lake.” Sure enough, it was a sailing dinghy, just right for three, if the third person was a fetus.

“All on board,” and so we went, me, Lynda Lu, and her fetus. Have I mentioned we were expecting? We just didn’t know what.
The waves on the Alster were tumultuous, at least two inches high, barely bearable for an old sailor like me--but then, Lynda Lu started rocking the boat and, ass over teakettle, I soared over the small craft’s gunwale, right into the waiting man-eating shark’s jaws. (Yes, a shark! you must think I was dreaming?)
“Lynda Lu!” I cried out with my dying breath, “tell those guys on Neopoet to stick with poetry, only. Straight prose would be a disaster! Tell Geezer. . .Aaargh...!” -- With a crash my dream ended, and Lynda Lu scraped me off the hard tiled bedroom floor.
THE Living END.

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Free verse
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Oh what a wonderful dream! Thats a really good example of creative prose? LOL i give credit when due sir, this week you are on fire.

Thank you...Teddy

A man eating shark would be fair play lol. You know back about 8-9 years ago we allowed prose here. Then the site crashed and since then it has not been encouraged. Not forbidden but not encouraged either. Kind of a shame in my opinion

I think the "man-eating shark" has swallowed the hyphen and so it became "a man eating shark," which is quite a switch (tasted like chicken), lol. Actually, I would welcome a prose board. Some of the poems I have seen here and there, are nothing more than straight prose anyhow. Thanks for reading, amigo. Jerry

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it may or may not be a great example of creative writing, but the JerryK's style of humor cannot be denied. However I have done better. Thank you for reading my skit--and I pray you, the reader, won't mistake the "k" in skit as an "h." And with that I will sign off, wishing you a good day, night, evening, or whatever. Addio, dear lady. Jerry

>Please visit my website:

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agree that this is more skit or vignette than prose, but be that as it may; I really appreciated the story and the dialog.
[The reason for calling out to Geezer in this matter is not determined]. I did a vignette for a workshop that I think Wesly Snow ran. I think the thing was called "Where's the Beef? It was a whole lot of fun. Maybe we can get someone to do a workshop on
skits, vignettes and prose? Sure would be interesting. I'd join it for sure. Thanks for bringing this up. ~ Geez.

Our Chatroom is open 24/7 Feel free to use it for
keeping in touch We have poets around the world and it is fun
to have real-time conversations with those that are up
all night or on the other side of the world.

yes, this could be fun--if "poets" would appreciate prose (storytelling) for what it really is: the forerunner of poetry. I would most certainly do my part to add to the fun. Sorry to say, but much to my regret, I don't think I'd met Wesly Snow. Meanwhile, I might add just now and then, some of my own quirky notions into the pot of poetry--till the pot boils over and I'm told to STOP. Thank you for picking up on the idea. Jerry

>Please visit my website:

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Hi Jerry, Geez and everybody who stops by to read your skit or story, I must say I enjoy it very much and would love a story forum here at Neopoet.
Most websites have them. I can contribute some right away, not as funny as yours, Jerry, but fair game.
BTW, as far as I understand, people spoke in poetry first. The habit goes back over 2000 years BCE, there are even cuneiform writings that are pieces of poetry. Not as we know it, but people sat around and chanted rather than talking. The repetitions were meant to help their listeners remember the tale. All the most ancient romances, elegies, travels, you name it, were written as poetry.
Never mind, I'm all for the new forum, and thanks for the laugh. Gracy

"My soul is painted like the wings of butterflies; fairy tales of yesterday will grow but never die, I can fly, my friends.” – Freddie Mercury

I would agree with you that Homer was a prose poet, meaning he wrote the Iliad and other works in prose form instead of verse form, while preserving poetic qualities such as heightened imagery, parataxis, and emotional effects--pretty much like my own memorable works, LOreally LOUD. Only kidding; but here is one of my jokes touching on what makes a poem a poem:

The beef I have with writing poetry
is often that which someone else can’t see.
I wrote a free-verse once—so sweet and fair,
but someone stuck his nose up in the air
and cried, “Oh, man, your poem doesn’t rhyme!
without a rhyme it fails to ring my chime . . . .”

I tried to reason . . . maybe somewhat terse,
“It’s not supposed to; it’s not that kind of verse . . . .”

He argued, “Man, I like my verses rhymed!”
to which I had an answer quite well timed:

“Why don’t you practice till you get yours right?
but meantime, let me write the way I write.
Walt Whitman wrote a free-verse, ‘Leaves of Grass,’
so, kindly get off my—umm—uh—soapbox!”

Gracy, actually, we are of one mind: one of my Neanderthal ancestors (Herman Munster) mumbled "Itsy bitsy canal boat," thus setting the stage for Shakespeare's "But soft, what light through yonder window breaks . . . ."
See how much fun we could have, if only we had a place where we could display our collective gems of wits? Nice (almost) talking with you. Stay well, Jerry

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