Still meant. Forward and Back Again.
Maybe I don't Prose as I used to.
Maybe The Prose. doesn't Prose. like it did
Moving the dot like a goal post, maser-ed
Neither left nor right.
Deeper, into the dark
Like a button, meant
to turn on the Light
03.20.2024
How do you 'The Prose'? challenge @Plexiglassfruit
Onion Seeds
Planting Spanish onion seeds
On the floor in my garage
In black plastic trays
While you read aloud the story of an Alaskan teacher
Deliberately
Imagining our babies in a year or two
Their hair will be yellow curls
Their eyes will be either oceans or ponds
Imagine the potluck dinners
The baseball games at 6 p.m.
Mom and Dad will be in love
And will never hurt anyone again
Not under heaven’s golden sun
Not this spring
my grandpapa & grannys house got sold, too.
Dear Plexi,
My grandparents house sold not that long ago. Last Sunday we were all there, picking it to pieces, taking sofas and paintings off the walls and piling them into vans. leaving only the bare bones.
I felt in my bones the way your poem, 'Grandpa & Grandma’s house sold today' never once mentions the house. It made me think of how, on Sunday, when we gutted each room, it wasn't sad. Because the house was already soulless, already gone, and the sadness is not in the loss of the house, but the loss of everything it contained. The memories of the loss. I ramble, I fear, but your poem stirred up so many feelings.
My grandparents too, were Christian. Are Christian. I don't know how the tenses work when they are meant to still exist in some form up there. I hope that everything they believed is true. I hope both of our grandparents' are up there, somewhere, together, maybe.
It is so wonderful, though the positive words taste wrong in this context, that you were there when they passed. I was not there. My granny passed in her sleep, quietly I suppose, because grandpapa didn't stir. The nurse told him in the morning that he'd been dozing next to a corpse. I'm glad she went peacefully, though in truth she'd gone long before then, succumbing to dementia, forgetting our names.
Grandpapa died of a heart attack. It was quick, a shock. Three days before he'd sat with me and my brother in the garden, drinking tea. He still walked to get the newspaper every morning. He would've been 90 this year. I'm glad he went quickly, but I was angry at the time. He was meant to see me graduate, maybe make it to my eldest brothers wedding, in a wheelchair, in a decade.
Your poem made me remember all this, so fresh again. Your poem is so beautifully, heart wrenchingly written. I would say I'm sorry for your loss but that seems wrong. You gained so much from having them in your life. Maybe not for as long as we would have liked. But to grieve is to love, and be loved. I won't say sorry about that to you, or me.
Your grandparents would be so proud of you. In a way I hope, if they are up there, they can't remember you because if they do they must miss you so, so much. But then again I know they would disagree with me and proclaim that the pain would be worth it to remember how loved they were, and how they loved.
I'll stop myself now, I do go on.
Sending you much love, Plexi.
From,
Rose.
I Promise
While I can,
I will give you my all,
My attention.
My time.
My love.
I will do my best to teach you
How to be a good man...
Someone you can be proud of.
I will never leave you behind...
I will always come home...
But when my time comes,
As it inevitably will,
I still have one promise to keep.
I will find a bench in heaven.
Somewhere outside the Pearly Gates,
And I will watch...
I hope to see you watch your children grow.
I hope to see you smile, more than frown.
I hope to see you give good to the world,
And experience a love that never dies...
And when your time comes.
And we can be together again.
It will be I that comes to take your hand...
As I did when you were young...
And I will bring you with me once again...
Plato 2024, balcony ants, starry-eyed and decayed, and a thing about Lila.
A spontaneous recording session from a found piece of gold ignited the twelfth episode over at Prose. Radio. We'll add the piece and writer in the comments. Nothing says Tuesday like black coffee and a bittersweet story. Gets no better.
Here's the link:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v5_h3z8MM2M&t=116s
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Jeff Buckley’s angelic ghost, rusting in circles, and hellfire waiting.
Our eleventh show on Prose. Radio was spawned by the music of Buckley, but, it was led on from TheWolfeDen's Challenge, then into a touch of hellfire and something waiting to, well, shine, in his own way...
Hear the two pieces here.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tHhGGEz8eC4&t=62s
Let's get this week to the weekend, where a stiff drink awaits...
And.
As always...
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
We’re Prose
Here is my folder, the space I need. Although it's not tucked into a locker or on a forgettable shelf. Always active and moving and reading and writing. The things that I love about life. And you never cross the same stuff twice unless you're really looking for it all over again.
Few people understand the notion of fake worlds you create and destroy. Nobody has the perfect imagination, but I like mine. Full of fun, horrors, villains and anything I really want. It's not really an outlet, because outlets take it and don't give anything back. Once you put something in it you can see it, but you don't get anything back from it.
I don't really have a word for it, but I do know one thing. That every time I put something in it, I get a lot more back. Comments that help succeed, likes that show love from other people who actually understand the books, and notifications( Which are annoying me because I cannot figure out how to delete old ones) that show what we need.
Prose are people who have awesome ideas based upon other things. Every challenge I enter is another fun world that I want to explore and write about. Every time I write, honestly I cannot help but to write more than one because I write one and then an idea is like, ohhh, look this'll be fun, it'll contrast.
Everytime that I look into this website I prepare myself for hours worth of reading, and a couple minutes of writing the first thing and then branching out. It's crazy what we do, how we do things. We do things like no other people, because we're the prose.
I've made a lot of noise on this website. Been here since 2018 or '19...? I can't remember. Let's go with '19 even if it may be '17 cos it feels like it might be right. What can I say? I want to be seen sometimes. When I scream out into the void, it's nice to imagine I am heard by someone. Sometimes, just as often, I don't want to be noticed at all. When I'm in the mood to share a bit, spill out, I come here. See if anything tickles my fancy. The challenges of this website have brought out some really real, really raw stuff from me. Reminded me of good and bad things. Bittersweet is the word I'd use cos that's what it tends to be. The website was there for me as my mind spiralled and when I left my old hell to a new, better university I'd like to call purgatory since it's in a more neutral plane of being. Writing helps me understand myself and I guess I'm tired of trying to make it pretty enough when I know for a fact this place gives you pretty free rein. I've written mostly sad things, sometimes genuinely good. My writing has gotten better. I'm able to explain my emotions rather well now. I entered this challenge cos I've been gone for a beat and honestly, seeing even more changes is something to adjust to. Yet I'm intrigued with what comes next. I tend to stick to what I'm familiar with so I'm not likely to look for another site any time soon... This will be a home for my random thoughts, memories and emotions for some unpredictable time to come.
New Beginnings
A new season means new beginnings, new opportunities, and new challenges. The troubles of the winter are left behind, the birds start chirping, the grass gets greener, and life gets sweeter. Not only am I overjoyed to leave the depressing, dead winter behind, but I am excited for what is ahead. As a senior in high school, the spring is a season of change for me. I will be soon ending and graduating from high school and taking on the adventures of moving far away for college. The unexpected is exciting and the hope of new possibilities is intriguing.
All of my first fruits to you.
Dear Plexi,
How do you do? I like writing letters in general and am glad I found you. I went through your posts and without a doubt enjoyed reading them, tho sadly there were too many to finish. To be honest, it was hard to only talk about one of your posts. I didn't know which was the right choice.
But, I did make a choice and that was 'all of my first fruits to you'.
Starting off, I noticed you posted it in Religion, but it was too late. I had already finished reading and the pictures were already drawn in my head.
Do you get it? Like when you think of something or read something, a picture is drawn inside your mind. An easier way to understand the lines. A fun way to make it worth. It actually leaves a lasting impression. And that helps my messed up memory capacity.
So, that poem now was in the romance section inside my head, and knowing you gave us the liberty of any tone we like, I couldn't not let you know and write.
This letter might turn out to be long, I'm afraid. But, I think you are someone who would read this anyway.
When I was reading your poem, I got reminded of the countless romance stories I've read before, still doing so. There was a deaf girl in one. A princess in another. There was also a cursed prince. And one of another species.
But, in my picture, it's a blind girl and her beloved soulmate. But reading again, even a man could think the same. And they are sitting in a bench on a hill top. The sun is setting while the wind shakes the cherry blossoms to their direction. Their hands are interlocked and they smile. The girl, bright and fulfilled, and her boy, masking his tears. The next image my mind forms is at night. The same bench, but the landscape so different. The blossoms are gone as if they followed her, and the winter cold weather freezes him. Yet he stays there, smiling as if he forgot how to. And I think it was because winter was her favorite.
And now I think I'll be able to write a poem on this.
I wonder if you got to picture what I wrote or you found this boring... but It's not like I can choose not to send this to you after writing this much. So I hope this was something you enjoyed, just like I did with your works.
Wishing you a great time ahead!
Thankyou! For this opportunity and giving me an idea.
Gratefully, DimDim.