'Twas the night before St. Patrick's
And all through the cell
The only thing heard
was you yelling hell.
The laundry was hung
By the ladder with care
In hopes that soon dry
They'd be ready to wear.
You couldn't sit still—
Jumping up, sitting down,
Dancing and prancing
And singing a noun.
Then the door opened
And run, yes you did
To go meet your baby
For you're practically a kid.
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FPS: The Last Flame Challenge Winners
Welcome to our first Winners Announcement of the year and to the final challenge in the Fall Poetry Series. The Last Flame invited writers to sit with endings, using fire as a central image to consider what remains when something burns out: ash, warmth, memory, silence, or the faint promise of what comes next. The strongest pieces treated endings as gradual rather than sudden, allowing them to flicker, dim, and linger.
By Vocal Curation Team7 days ago in Resources
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