Much poetry of mine is prose poem in style. Because of the lack of an apparent cadence and often lack of end line rhyming, it has a structure and form for the eye with which gives the reader an opportunity give his own cadence in the breaks as he moves from line to line. This leads into a rhythm, hence the reader creates his music for the song. This cooperation between artist and reader makes the prose become a touch of poesy; perhaps this is a touch mutual creativity. It is another dimension, perhaps fourth but maybe the Fifth Dimension of Choice (from Maxwell, Einstein and Kaluza circa 1921)! In any case, it is somewhat fashioned on one of e. e. cummings styles; as in "in Just-". hh

~~~this twelfth of never is near


 
for he of the
peach fuzz
his eager eye
his eager face
 
could embrace the
world
and it would
succumb
to
his
earnestness
 
if all were like he
this world would be in safe
hands
 
my heart
and my
very soul
aches for a world full of youth
like he~~~rm

~~~~ Snows (In Apartheid South Africa)
lies
in
the
snows (of Africa south)
 
and (then) the snow
 
melted
it
may
snow
again
 
 
along with the
snows
 
a love blossomed
 
(one) spring
 
a love eternal
 
amid
the
melting
snow
 
(a teardrop unnoticed
falls?)~~~hpc

I saw her there
beside a lampost
a bunny rabbit in her arms
waiting for a taxi
 
standing in the dim light
brown eyes sparkling
A cab slowed
and stopped
she stopped
at the open door
 
looked back
hugged the rabbit
and looked at me
 
touched her hat brim
and
with rabbit on one arm
 
closed the door
and
was gone
 
and i was all alone
 
all alone
 
standing~~~hpc

A Soldier
I saw him heading out
 
to the services.
he hobbled
wth cane at 89
and a Highlander wedge-cap with ribbon
he hobbled further
 
three generations past almost
he marched
embattled
he marched
as a young man could
 
today at 1037 a.m.
he hobbled
to bid another farewell
to his
comrades
 
When will they ever learn
oh no, not the soldiers
 
the politicians and generals with their toys
 
when will they ever learn
yet the old man
will hobble again next year and
the next
maybe another
year
to hobble
to homage
 
I shed a secret tear for
all
who hobble~~~hpc
Copyright [2013] Harvey Harte