Summer

Summer is strange,

You could drown in the blue air.

Suffocate on the dust of yellow-pink nostalgia.

Explode into a sky full of stars

And never feel afraid.

Challenge

Prose Challenge of the Week #37: Write a piece of poetry or prose inspired by or using the following word: Manifest. The winner will be chosen based on a number of criteria, this includes: fire, form, and creative edge. Number of reads, bookmarks, and shares will also be taken into consideration. The winner will receive $100. When sharing to Twitter, please use the hashtag #ProseChallenge

AmyRosalyn

74 reads

Manifest destiny

The arc of the sun

Red with natives blood.

A red ribbon, a vein,

Thomas Jefferson cut.

Leading down through Louisiana.

A black line on the map,

Trailed by slaves.

Ah America -

Land of the free and the brave.

Challenge

Prose Challenge of the Week #36: Write a Haiku or Tanka describing a colour without using the name of the colour. The winner will be chosen based on a number of criteria, this includes: fire, form, and creative edge. Number of reads, bookmarks, and shares will also be taken into consideration. The winner will receive $100. When sharing to Twitter, please use the hashtag #ProseChallenge

AmyRosalyn

138 reads

White

Pale leather, sea foam

A fire on the hottest burn

The pearly moon turns

Challenge

Prose Challenge of the Week #35: Write a piece of micropoetry that draws inspiration from the following word: “Equality.” The winner will be chosen based on a number of criteria, this includes: fire, form, and creative edge. Number of reads, bookmarks, and shares will also be taken into consideration. The winner will receive $100. When sharing to Twitter, please use the hashtag #ProseChallenge

AmyRosalyn

97 reads

Equality

Equality has a politician's flare,

Hides what's unfair.

Easier to count the stars in the sky.

Ask your gods "Why?"

Than to take a stand -

Hold out your hand.

AmyRosalyn

116 reads

Secrets

I don't have many secrets anymore.

Someone ripped my stitches out

And let my wounds weep,

It was me.

I showed my mother all the places

Where I had cut too deep

Gashes I treated like flower beds

Blood lilies and roses to reaped.

To turn to this damned poetry.