soul ash lends on my skin

it comes from the burning world around me,

in all the chaos of lost breaths

and cold evening nights

before the earthquakes of forgotten years,

I hold a flame of my own in shaking hands,

not from destruction or faded dreams

but dripping from cuts

( blood cells that did not know better )

whispered in careless rhythm

match, spark, explosion

you

forever residing between my hushed breaths

and calm moments,

this pulsating scarlet of red stars

within the universe trusted in your callus fingers

but ever so gentle with me,

soul ash lends on my skin

it comes from the burning world around me,

yet all that drifts away . as I inhale the feeling of you within my lungs

pressing tattooed fingertips with black inked scars

over your chest,

counting spaces between your bruised ribs

enjoying each

dent,

mark,

each beautiful flaw

you are the flowers . painted over my fractured structures

the inside of my heart

turned into whispering flames, coated in heavy snow

never one without the other

the lazy heat of summer nights,

intertwined into the winter’s sun,

slip the back of your hand past my fears slowly

as if learning the outside curves of my thighs,

trace the doubts that come from rejection

as if following the line of my spine

now very gently... please

let your soul glide within still open wounds

cuts,

scars,

many twisted cords,

you say it was so easy

to love my chaotic, damaged spaces

when at times,

I could not even see one deserving string of light

between my tired muscles

and frozen air that always lingered on the cold glass,

funny that even then,

the warmth was calling to soothe others,

unconditional love throbbing in my veins

( soft, but raging with a wild core of something more )

never quite finding release

until there was you

gently, without pressure . growing in my heart

just one day at a time

bringing rain with you,

and hope

the moment we collided . everything changed

thank you, for opening the door and taking my hand

even as your soul was covered in ash

from the burning world around you

thank you

Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.

A quick nod to one of our new talents, whose post is featured in our Exclusive Spotlight showing on the channel. Tune in, and give this writer a couple of minutes of yourself and your ear on this Sunday's high noon, or afternoon, or whatever it is, wherever you are. The link sits just below the period that ends this sentence.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2g1ylrcC7Aw

And.

As always.

-Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.

In today's vid on the channel, we announce the winner of last month and the new prompt! After the reveal, if you decide to stay, we run through the crew on the short list.

Here's the link.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wV2ET7xMnfA

And here's the new CotM.

https://theprose.com/challenge/13889

And.

As always........

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.

Today, we oficially kick off the Post of the Week, and give you details about the Challenges. Happy to say we're reigniting the Challenge of the Week, and each one is a big, fat 25 bucks to the winner. But, onto the new video: On the channel, we feature a beautiful human creature (rhyme level-10-boom!) with a wolfe in the username. Tell you what right now, she's also a beautiful reader. Tune in to the link below to hear the words of this unique talent.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rnOuxbUhelg

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

My kitchen contains two bottles of wine that I have stored at 55 degrees Fahrenheit for nine years; I will store them at 55 degrees for at least another fifteen. I will open them on that undetermined date to follow a meal with an undetermined menu for undetermined guests.

My daughters and wife will be there, certainly, and several colleagues of past and future. I’d like to draft the list now, but life doesn’t work that way. Preparing for a dinner party 15-20 years in advance is an exercise in quixotism—who knows? I could be dead myself—but that’s the appeal, I think.

I bought those two bottles of vintage port first: Quinta do Vale Meao, 2011. I had read of the excellent vintage, and when a conference in 2014 took me to Albany, I shopped at a wine warehouse during a break and found them. I have held them ever since, occasionally pulling them from the temperature control to read their labels and daydream.

In centuries past, nobility bought cask after cask of vintage port to celebrate the births of their sons. By the time the children reached adulthood, the port would be ready to drink. Being a teacher in the 21st century, I have more limited means, but I can manage two bottles for my retirement.

I have not decided on the wine for the main course, but I have prepared a trial to help me choose. My wine fridge contains a quality 2007 Barolo and 2010 Bordeaux. Both remain too young to drink, according to Robert Parker’s vintage charts, but someday soon I will have to uncork them anyway and decant for a few hours. Which aged red will I prefer? My decision must come soon so I can invest in a half case or so of something very good. If I retire when first eligible, I only have until 2038 for the wine to mature. I feel less time pressure for the first course’s wine. I live in the Finger Lakes, one of the finest Riesling regions in the world. I can lay my hands on something good just a handful of years in advance.

Once I’ve made a final decision about my retirement date, I’ll make inquiries and hire a private chef, with whom I’ll meet and share the Riesling and the red. We’ll talk about the dishes the chef favors. I will be open to possibilities, but I’d like something with goat cheese to accompany the Riesling, and I’ve thought of braised beef or roast duck for the main course. As I am Irish, there must be roasted potatoes. A dark chocolate dessert must accompany the port.

If some of my former colleagues live out of state, I’ll offer airfare and a hotel; they will be surprise guests. Local colleagues will meet me, somewhere, and a limo will arrive to carry us to the location so past and present can come together, unexpectedly, as they usually do. When the server brings the first course I will raise a glass and acknowledge those who could not join us. I do not now know the middle bit, but I’ll have notes by then. I only know the closing: “Thank you for being there. Thank you for being here. Thank you for sharing a meal with me.”

Hello Writers and Dear Readers.

In today's vid, we look at two beautiful styles of writing. We'll tag them along with the crew in the crew in the comments. The link is right below this sentence.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IMlTwlFwjxU

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team.

i see sparrows

with golden beaks

and selfish tongues

i see the lines in the sky

that they paint with their wings

sewn like thread

through clouds

black feet scattering

windtorn phrases

across my journal entries

tic-tac-toe scratches

in between the lines

i see bird bones and

feather ink

strewn across the sun

with their diamond eyes

and selfish tongues.

I wanted vines to grow over the spotted railing. My mom and aunt clipped the weeds and painted it instead.

That's what we do. What we've done for a hundred years.

We paint over the ugly flecks of brown and orange, eating away at what was once secure.

We paint over it, ignoring the shifting texture of shuddering metal.

We paint it white, a color unsullied but easily filled by filth.

We paint, again and again. Masking the slow destruction.

One day, it will fall, heavy with layers and withered by time. And I will whisper gratitudes as it crashes dully into the overgrowth.

My boots will stomp heavy, avoiding the pits left by the crabapple tree, crushing dandelions beneath my heels.

I will walk, down the hill, down the street, to the crossroads, to new homes on new streets. My eyes will linger lustfully over renovated houses and fresh, modern fixtures. Envy will turn to pride. Shame is transmuted between sighs of relief.

One day, I will look off into the distance, over the hill, past the church. The collapsed railing will be long out of sight but the wind will roll in softly, crooning tales of nature and her tenacity. Her songs will tussle my hair and set it down gently upon my neck, a story of lightning storms and hallowed ground.

An angel weeps quietly upon my shoulder.

I find her despair misguided.

Paled, flaking

I crave the earth's warmth

Color, blooms

---

Petals stretched

A sun, forgiving

Rain, cleanses

‘‘Just hold that happy thought, Peter…’’ he bellowed. In what seemed to be a miracle to her, she witnessed the elderly ‘Captain’ try to take a giant leap over the dining table, luckily he did not break any more of his bones. This was but only a much lesser incident.

She sighed with angst. Her eyes glued to the sight of the old ‘Capt.’. She slowly dragged her feet, and approached the old guy: ‘‘Hey— it’s time for you to take your meds-’’

He started to make a run for it. Before she knew it, he was crouched upon the edge of the window. She let out a scream~

‘‘Captain Hook!’’

A small grin formed across his angular, and wrinkled visage. He leaned back a bit, and then jumped right onto the carpet. She sighed, but this time in relief. ‘‘Alright. If you take your medication…I promise to follow you to Neverland in search of Peter Pan..’’

Later while all were in dreamland, except for the Captain, something wandered about his room. The Capt. ducked underneath his leprechaun blanket. ‘‘Who’s there?’’

A voice replied, ‘‘Hey, it’s been ages, Captain Hook. Thought I’d check in on you.’’

For the rest in the facility, those patrolling the hallways, and corridors, all they heard was a sound of a gentle bell ringing in the dead of night. Captain Hook smiled at the sight of a familiar face.

She chuckled. Then after a short while, they both made their way to Neverland.

The Captain sure was glad to be out of the place for what others said was for those who needed a place, and space to be where they could not do any harm to others, especially young children. The Capt. smiled, all he wanted now was to be back on his ship, ready to sail the seven seas!

#LeCapitaine©️