do not read haiku

if allergic to haiku

consult with your shrink

...

9/3/2024

cursed shoots still grow

where i cut the weed tree down

reflections of you

...

8/24/2024

An enchanting sight,

The beauty of the setting sun

Staining the tapestry of white clouds woven in the sky

Into vibrant shades of orange, purple, and pink.

A breath of fresh air, of new hope for a better future.

I bask in the final rays of light before night falls,

Savoring the warmth that seeps into my skin, my soul.

And as I watch the sun fade away beyond the horizon,

I'm not afraid of the night.

I'm not afraid of the stormy days to come.

Not anymore.

For now I remember:

There is more to life than rain and thunder,

Than darkness and fear.

And I am so grateful to the clouds that floated into my life,

Who reintroduced me to color and hope and warmth.

The ramshackle train of what could have been

Is lost in night’s eel tongue spread,

Where the sparking charge

Licks soul leeched blood

Off auburn acid tracks,

Charting a doomed course to the faraway mirage

Of once upon a time’s dust shelf kingdom,

Where every sacred minute, we wait for tomorrow’s dusky calling.

The whistling lamentation

Carves its stinging sonic tattoo

Into our slouched defeat of dreams

Between station to station,

As we rave towards the bullet express,

Our cheerless protest

A broken legged gait.

And the chattering residue

Of spectral echos along the grief anchored tracks,

Fall as a rain of war cry hyenas,

The erupted levee’s clapping doom

Shunting the path

And devouring our past,

Her storied page

Worn away

By the rusting belt

Of Hiroshima sun.

The bronze capped trees

Collect volumes of disintegrated memories;

For the distance to home cannot be measured on a scale of tears.

I am standing in the black mud

You are squeezing my barely beating heart

I feel the drops of blood on my toes

Your mind is the one who is causing this mess

I am the one dying and I am not even suffering

I gently smile as the harsh sensations arise in my field of consciousness

Some anxious thoughts are trying to get my attention

But sorry mind, there is nothing to do

Someone was identified with their mind, offended by my words

So he decided to kill me

I hope he learns better in his next life

I hope I live longer in mine

Does anyone need to hear these words of ease?

Emerging from the realm of peace

To sense a sparkle of hope?

That light does exist

In the depths, far behind the clouds of your mind

There is a heaven

An endless realm of connected intelligent love

Playing a silent symphony

Reminding you where you come from

Reminding you that you are free, loved and understood

The peace hugs you endlessly

Residing in its arms it heals you

Bringing you back to life

And if you dare to bathe in it long enough, it might create cracks in the sturdy walls of your mind

Do not be afraid to loose yourself

The very arms that are hugging you

Are yours

Black spires of night

Hold dark delight

Offering a restful night's respite

Silver eyes

That dot the sky

And guard sleeping forms from on high

A thin veneer

Of thoughts unclear

That paint a world that's far from here

A world beyond

This stagnant pond

Where memories most fond are spawned

That's the world I see most nights

The one that holds fleeting delights

The one where I indulge in vices that entice

And when the blinding light invades

Peaking from between the shades

And drags me back to my dark glade

I sigh and wish I could have stayed

But the memories they linger on

And tempt me to keep going strong

Because they tell me through their song

Soon I'll be back where I belong

It was that time when dawn folded a losing hand

And twilight bullied his magenta swath

Around the eroding pulpit of a hemorrhaged sun,

Fanged stars drinking etherized skies to a pale finish,

Drunk on the creeping coils of circadian spells

Spinning wild her astral waterspouts of fevered dreams

Into our open season heads.

I laughed the laugh of a fish

As it leaps with expiring finesse

Upon the slipstream jaws of hooked panic,

To chase away death’s charcoal taste

That burns its wanton reminders

And trauma flavours

Beneath the black pooled ink

Which spilled through gated voids of tarry gloom

Bubbling hot under the devil’s cactus tongue.

The glare hit ugly with leaden heaviness,

Its splintering light a chaos of ricocheted shine

That blinds rebel eyes of bound innocents,

Where shadows saunter towards beds of peace,

To pierce treasonous swords

Through stained glass hearts

Which weep leagues deep,

The volts of their death rattle

Supercharged to atomic hysterics.

How I rode that charred mare through oblivion’s keyhole

And found utopian ruins still boldly smoldering,

Fresh from shocked dreams as cold as silver.

Who could tame

These unshackled partakers of divine design,

Their defiant scissoring swim

A bladed victory lap through gossamer noose,

That could not choke its rope of buzzard chained flies

Around the riders

Swept through chthonic skies.

I’ve decided

That my escape

Into the bald frontiers of redemption

Is here

And now,

As the velvet whisper winds

Sing dulcet lullabies

A million miles long,

And how free these lips

That join their song.

I came into this world two days late, mad as hell. My parents were nine years too far into their marriage. My mom was two years from an overdose attempt and my father, five years from a decade-long disappearance.

My grandfather-- who would later assume my dad's role-- had the quirk of nicknaming all the babies born into the family. Sometimes it took a while, as he needed time to reflect on looks, personality, and memorable moments. Then he would christen them with whatever he found fitting. But mine came in an instant. As I screeched in my mother's arms, wailing in protest, nostalgic for the void, her father pulled me into his age-spotted arms and I settled, growing silent in his embrace.

I like to think that my soul recognized his, that there was some part of me that carried an innate knowing of the traits we shared. But that's a story for another chapter. If you're the skeptical type, then it's a tall tale for another time. My Papa looked at me, and I looked at him, face still flushed with the remnants of my tantrum. On that Tuesday afternoon in the late Southern spring, my nickname chose itself.

Screaming Redcheeks.

Papa was the only one who called me this, and usually shortened it to Redcheeks, rarely calling me by my given name. There was even a paint stick with SCREAMING REDCHEEKS scrawled onto it with a fat-tipped Sharpie, kept atop the china cabinet for the days in which I lived up to my namesake. My tantrums became expected, routine even. I was set off by nearly everything, even trivial matters like the dog not listening or an especially tricky level of a computer game. I was (still am) argumentative and questioned the validity and authority of everyone and everything.

With my history, I find it strange that others describe me as calm or stoic. I was noted as being a polite, intelligent, and motivated child, though that sentiment decreased dramatically in my teens. Anytime I'm complimented on my nature, a montage of screaming fits, unfeeling language, and brazen manipulation flashes through my mind. I think of the year I smashed all the Christmas ornaments during a tantrum, or the time I threw a dining room chair at my mother. I see my children's worried faces and my patterns repeated within them. Then plays a vision of my marriage on the rocks, with my husband wavering on the cliffside, peering into the depths of Irreconcilable Differences.

My temperament breathes in dualities. There's a consistent ebb and flow, tempestuous currents of mood and mentality. There is understanding betrothed to denial. Warm embraces are frozen in a duel with cold calculation. Within hope lives hopelessness. In the absence of mania, comes depression.

I am Screaming Redcheeks. I am Marissa Wolfe.

Somewhere, within the gray of black-white polarities, there have been touches of silver that slow the pendulum just enough to offer glimpses of what healthy, happy, and hopeful looks like. Just enough to strive for. Just enough to snap the paint stick and depart from the path of rage. Anger is birthed from sadness. Sadness is birthed from pain. Pain roots itself, unyielding, into the grooves of the brain and chokes out the chambers of the heart.

And yet, it has been my greatest teacher. My greatest motivator.

The flame-soaked phoenix wails to the heavens, wondering why she's been forsaken, but within her scattered ashes is the chance to start anew. She reforms, entrenched in her cycles, and cries a different song, more knowing than the one before.

"Tell me why, I do like Mondays, tell me why..." One, the Monday video, and two, written words from the world of Prose., and from there the reasons stem in mirrored roots. Let's jump in.

As we're sure you've noticed, there are no longer timestamps on posts or comments. We go into our reasons on Prose. Radio, which we'll link below, where, more importantly, two writers are featured, fireside: A short poem by one of our legends, and a longer, dream-like piece by a writer with all the letters in piece in the username, come to realize it.

Here's the link to the feature on Prose. Radio.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_mY9NJEXYHs

And we'll link the pieces and the authors in the comments below this very post.

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team