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 |  my entries for the Construct Cup |
It's that time again. Time when I lose all sense of proportion and sanity and agree to write a poem a day following prompts exactly as given by our fearless leaders (aka Ren the Klutz!  and Fyn  . I may not survive. But I will do it anyway, mostly because I can't imagine anyone having this much agony fun without me. Come join us! We have cookies. And possibly, straitjackets.
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| I am born as the world weeps— warming snow laden eaves—ice tears formed and caught a moment out of time. from such a sorrowful genesis, it is strange to me, sometimes, that they try to remake me— tinsel and lights and polymers with long names and awful smells that catch on their hands and linger— they try and fail to shine like me. I catch rainbows in the sunlight weeping for joy and fear— each drop diminishes me. each drop makes me grow. line count: 24 original poem: "the wreath on the door"  Prompt ▼ |
| I’m calm, so calm. too calm, entering the room not slamming the door behind me, deliberate movements. only with the door closed and locked, with the soundproofing guaranteed in place, do I finally scream all the things I didn’t say, I wanted to say. I shouldn’t say because I really do love her and I really want what’s best for her but why does she have to stamp on each and every nerve—being around her is like a hammer to the funny bone. once, I dropped a ceramic cookie off an apartment building. it shattered beautifully. I cleaned up after. I like the sound of crashing. plates against the wall, cups. the good china that she put on her wish list because everyone wants china, if only to throw it. watch it shatter watch it again in slow motion, the place setting leaving my hands to separate in the air into component pieces—cup, three plates, two bowls— and then the explosion against the wall. beautiful sound. and I’m screaming until my voice is broken and I’ve said everything I didn’t say because I didn’t want to hurt her. didn’t want to hurt him. didn’t want to hurt them, and I rub my hands until they stop shaking. I turn and leave the room, hearing the mess melt back whole behind me, and when I see her again, I have a smile a kind word, and the calm memory of her precious things exploding musically beneath my shoes. line count: 55 Prompt ▼ |
| my dear Mattie, in the back of my head, you’re still the toddler bouncing off the walls, yellow curls flying, sitting in the middle of a mess with the sweetest, (most devilish) grin on your face. I know you’ve grown, but nine years difference is a difficult gap to master. I was away, living my life when you took your first headlong rush into adulthood. but I see you now, with children of your own. your daughter is nine—growing so fast, so well. I am awed by you. the way your mind works— so fast, so well. the way you hold your family safe. the way you help them grow. this year, your package held a shawl in purples and greens. with every knitted stitch, I thought of you and marveled over you and loved you. no matter where our lives and loves take up—and you are so far away— I miss you and think of you daily. keep well. I love you, Rhyssa line count: 32 Prompt ▼ |
| on each Christmas midnight when lists are all done and the air fills with candy canes, chocolate and plums, and drooping white eyebrows are ready for bed— one last gift nestles deeply in Santa’s red sled. it’s small but it’s precious and sealed with a kiss by a helper who studied her own special list, yes, this last gift: a poem, which I folded with care is for You and from Me with my love and my prayer. I want you to know that all joking aside, you’re special to me and you fill me with pride. I know that I really don’t say it enough, when I try, I feel tears choke my voice ‘til it’s gruff, I love you. please listen. I’ll say it again. I love you. your joy is my ultimate end. and I’ll try to do better to show that this year— as Santa delivers and poof, disappears. line count: 32 slant rhymes: done/plums kiss/list again/end year/disappears Prompt ▼ |
| my toy store is magic— I fill it with joy and laughter and fun stuff for all girls and boys who manage to find a small sign: Rhyssa’s Toys. I wrote it in purple surrounded by gold and parked in a dream where it grew, uncontrolled— to be a safe harbor for hearts, never old. you see, my business is all about dreams— and people who seek them, eyes wide and agleam. that’s why there’s no price that you'll have to redeem. I fill it with pretty and breakable things, and soft dolls, and yo-yos, trains, planes, silly string, and teddys, and unicorns, stuffed ghosts who sing, child sized rocking chairs, sequined crocodiles, and alphabets made into soft rubber tiles— to cover the floor while we play for a while. in one giant corner dwells ten million books— and pillows and blankets for our reading nook to make sure we find comfort as we have a look. I have Aslan and Alice, and Winnie the Pooh, Howl’s Moving Castle by Jones is there, too, and more every minute—you see, books do accrue. so come in your dreams, make a wish, count to 10, hold your breath, close your eyes, open once and again, and you’ll find your way here. where you’ll play in my den. line count: 48 Prompt ▼ |
| It is next week, and I wake before my alarm at what my phone tells me is way too early in the morning. But I can’t go back to bed because it is Christmas and my back aches with helping Santa until roughly four hours ago. In our house, Santa leaves the ribbons to be tied and curled under the tree so they don’t get crushed in his bag. The last part of Christmas Eve is sitting with my sisters under the tree, curling and tying as fast as we can go, and then arranging the gifts so that wrapping paper is evenly distributed. We don’t have children with us this morning. Just four adults sleeping (or waking) in three rooms, waiting until it’s time to come downstairs and have breakfast. When we were children, impatience dictated Christmas morning, but there were rules. Only the youngest could wake up the house, and that child had to wake naturally. Which meant, as the oldest, I spent hours at a time, sitting on the floor of my sister’s room, trying to stare her awake. It almost never worked. I check my phone again, but it still isn’t nearly time for a civilized breakfast. But lying in bed isn’t helping. I stand, gather clothes together—including Christmas socks and a shirt that’s both comfortable and photogenic—and head for the shower. Ten minutes later, the phone still hasn’t marked dawn. I head downstairs with my knitting to take my insulin and wait some more. We have only minimally decorated this year. No children to be disappointed. With a Christmas movie playing softly, I knit and wait for my phone to acknowledge it’s time for people to be awake. I think of my brother and sisters. In Germany, the morning must be nearly over with gifts unwrapped and breakfast finished. In California, the children are probably waking their bleary eyed parents. In Alabama, with their daddy in the kitchen making cinnamon rolls, the children might be in the middle of the morning’s unveiling. Upstairs, my baby sister is still sleeping or maybe not asleep yet. And my parents won’t wake until they’re good and ready. I sit and knit, trying to finish my advent scarf that I’ve worked on since the day after Thanksgiving. It’s nearly finished, a complicated creation of lace and twisted stitches and cables that evoke angels and bells and holly and other Christmas symbols. I knit while on the television, actors sing and pretend to fall in love and my phone blinks closer and closer to the time when they will stir upstairs and come down and meet me around the tree for our own unwrapping of presents. word count: 448 timepiece: phone outside, an imagined rooftop clatter a jingle of bells wakes me, with no hope of return—Christmas morning begins as midnight rolls away and parents finish their wrapping and ribbons a few hours before children scream “Santa came!” no children here, but my mind runs with memories of Christmas past— waiting for blue eyes to open so mayhem can commence, and although my phone tells me that dawn has hours to come, I can’t sleep. all over the world, my family is waking, children entering the same cycle of enthusiasm while parents yawn—I can almost see them, as I scroll their pictures on my phone— Germany. Alabama. California. the dancers are different, the dance is the same. and me. waiting for adults to wake, working one last project as Christmas links us. so close. so far away. line count: 32 timepiece: phone Prompt ▼ |
| I cried when they left me— seven souls in a big blue van heading east again while I stayed behind. I was eighteen. I wanted college. I even wanted to be so far away, but watching them go I remembered how much I’d miss them—Mama and Daddy. Joyce and Rachel, Lorenzo and Madeline, and Rose. she was only two, learning new words and living at a run. so sweet. would she even remember me? six months is an eternity for a young woman who never had been away from home for more than a week. but our family road trip was in July, and coming home to fly away in September? so we drove through mountains and canyons, visiting family and singing the bickering away, and when we reached my aunt, I stayed. they left. and I would be gone until Christmas. I wrote often, but Rose— too small to read. I drew pictures of my life. my dorm room, the mountain, the cafeteria where I took my meals with a thousand other freshmen who became familiar—almost family. but not quite. midterms. Thanksgiving with my aunt. finals. then Christmas and home on a plane with a layover in Denver that lasted hours longer than it should have while the plane experienced issues and I couldn’t rest for aching— their absence was like the hole left by a pulled tooth. wrong. painful. in those days, they could meet me at the gate—seven souls standing in a group, waiting for me to clear it so they could descend on me with hugs and conversations started and overlapping, a familiar music—and I was whole again, but when I bent to Rose, she shrank away. I brushed it off as though it didn’t hurt, and we headed home, Rose staring at me as though I were a stranger through baggage claim and into the car where someone else took the seat that once was mine, and the city was dark and cold in the hour it took to get home, and my room had been changed because I didn’t live there anymore, and home felt wrong—like trying on someone else’s shoes, until Rose reached up and touched my face and smiled, and I was home for Christmas. line count: 75 Prompt ▼ |
| it appeared one rainy afternoon, set down an alley with antiques in the windows and a sign, painted glossy red and gold: “Ye Olde Christmas Magick,” and it drew me in because randomly misspelled words designed to simulate archaic-isms make me laugh and because my list was still lacking checkmarks beside very important names (including yours). the door rang in tune as it opened for me, a relief after the day’s discord. the air was still and quiet. no carols ringing in the year—instead, my ears felt muffled— as though I were walking through a feather pillow. it smelled of Christmas, piquant with cinnamon and oranges and evergreen and mint, so thick I could taste it. the proprietor looked at me over silver, square rimmed spectacles, his beard long and white, his coat red. “Do you need help, Rhyssa,” he said, and I shook my head and turned to view the merchandise. three steps more before I stopped, befuddled. he shouldn’t have known my name, I turned, but he was gone, leaving a sparkle of gold dusted cobwebs behind the counter and blank wall where the door had been. but I wasn’t scared although the exit was gone. instead, I caught a glimpse of a bound journal with a pen just waiting for epistemological adventures, a pair of dangly earrings in the shape of snowflakes and bells, and a book I’d been longing for and reached out to almost touch— but my eye was drawn past to a cat—white with blue eyes and a grin, staring at me from her shelf where she sat in ceramic glory, and it was as though she shouted Rhyssa, take me. I’m perfect for her! and he was at my elbow, reaching for the cat before I knew I’d decided it was hers. “Wise choice,” he said, and laughed so that his belly shook, “it’s better to give than receive,” and it was wrapped and I found myself walking out the door before I even got my wallet out, the floorboards creaking in tune as I left. enclosed is the cat. it swears it belongs. as for me, when I opened the packages from you, I found everything that had caught my eye. line count: 75 (I think. I tried counting several times and got 75 twice) Prompt ▼ |
they say when Christmas bells ring midnight, the animals break from their feeding to stargaze— and see angels singing. at the sound, their tongues are loosed, and if you are still awake (waiting for the sound of reindeer hooves or a distant laugh), you can hear them speaking. animals are wise on a Christmas midnight. they speak great truths of futures and pasts and loves and losses. the little kitten chasing her tail, the puppy jumping, if you hear them whisper, stop. listen. hear. they have a message for you. some forecast to make your future special. pretend to sleep— etiquette demands that when human ears are aware, they must keep quiet, and this hour is their only chance to catch up on the doings of far off places and exotic friends. their time lasts only an hour. when the clock tolls one, the heavens close. when angels cease their singing, animal tongues are tied, left to meander to their mangers, empty of any words. line count: 40 form: quadruple etheree: http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/etheree.html Prompt ▼ |
| eighteen years ago I first saw Memphis—sprawling on top of the bluff, the mighty Mississippi a dark shadow below. the streets meandered along forgotten cow paths and I thought about the time— eighteen months before— when I left the wheel of DC for England’s green hills and ordered hedgerows. Memphis gave me my first salary and my first flash flood and my first time coming home to the news that my house had been burgled. I watched three sisters marry here and met four nieces and nephews for the first time. and said goodbye to one. I got sick here, which isn’t Memphis’ fault. here, in a little room overlooking a construction site where apartment buildings were turning into the Panera where we go every Tuesday to knit, I learned to check my blood, to draw medicine to inject. I learned to live here. I grew here. I found writing again and wrote and shared and revised and edited and wrote again until my fingers ached and I could explain why I wrote what I did. I’ve studied here for so long that it feels strange to admit that my time is over and I’m done studying. I should be doing. I’ve never lived anywhere longer. eighteen whole years—it feels so long and I keep expecting the place to ensnare me with roots—emerging from the ground like some alien being. but I tread this world lightly, and the winds are calling and I want to fly away somewhere new. there are adventures still, elsewhere. line count: 52 Prompt ▼ |
| today I got a Christmas card with magic Christmas power— you see, I peeled the envelope and slipped back many hours and days, and years until I found myself inside the card, riding on a one horse sleigh into a church courtyard. the horse’s harness rang with bells, the sleigh was robin red, to keep me warm I had a fur confection on my head, the church’s windows gave a glow— ‘twas clearly candle light, and all the air was filled with snow. a perfect Christmas night. and snow lay even on the ground and roofs and trees—so sweetly. (that’s how I knew the scene was staged, snow never lies so neatly) near the church to welcome me, and Merry Christmas bringing, was a group of carolers, and all of them were singing. that’s when my eyes began to blur because they were my dead— my grandparents, my nephew, yes. I tumbled from the sled, and raced to greet them tenderly and sang with them all night— the magic of that Christmas card held us, ‘til dawn’s light. and then I blinked and in my hands the card was small again, the ink was faint—I couldn’t tell just who had sent it, then. and as I watched, it faded fast to leave an empty card. no picture of an open sleigh in a snowy yard. no candle sticks through windowpanes, no painted snow capped roof. nothing remained of this sweet gift that I could count as proof, but in my heart, the memory stands and yes, I still believe in magic, and in my dead who are loved eternally. line count: 48 Prompt ▼ |
| our tree is replete with starlight, golds, silvers, reds— chiming bells, whispering tinsel, candy canes, garlands—beads, greenery, ornaments— glass, brass, cinnamon sticks, embroidery, yarn Mama’s nativities—Mary, Joseph, baby. everything palpably symbolic: Christ is center. line count: 12 Prompt 18 ▼ |
| you’ve said goodbye, but I got this feeling inside my bones that you love me now and I feel the same way. I need more hours with you—that’s why I lurk outside your window, showing up at your workplace, calling those idiots you try to replace me with. but if you really want me, you’re running out of time. I’m not a stalker. baby I still see you. everywhere I go, I see your face all made up and looking like a princess— it haunts me, like the scent of peaches and the taste of blue raspberry gummies shaped like baby sharks, and I start leaking like Niagara. this is perfect—proof of my love to carry with you—but if you play me . . . close to that edge. I’m not made out of steel. if you’re gonna break my heart, just break it and scatter the pieces city wide. start with downtown, and we’ll have only 27 blocks to go and I’ll be out of your life. just another ex-love you don’t wanna see, gone and forgotten. line count: 30 lines included: all of them. if you're gonna break my heart just break it play me close 27 blocks to go I'm not made out of steel everywhere I go I see your face this is perfect baby, I still see you you're running out of time just another ex-love you don't wanna see looking like a princess I need more hours with you you love me now and I feel the same way I got this feeling inside my bones baby shark Prompt 17 ▼ |
| they gave us five whole days to say goodbye, long hours standing by his cradle, long minutes trying to find words. sometimes there are no words. we spent eternities singing lullabies to ears that should have heard us. less than a week should not last eons—it should be so much more than the instants we had. and when it was finished and the measured beat of his heart stilled, that moment had the potential of a lifetime. six years later, I’ve lost the shape of his face, and I never knew the sound of his voice or the music of his laugh— but within me, the time we had together will linger, forever. line count: 26 Prompt 16 ▼ |
| I wasn’t hungry until the phone rang, and the mean, smug voice at the end of the line told me she was at the patisserie, smelling them, buying one, putting one into her mouth, and my mouth watered with anticipation, and I wanted one NOW! but England is so far away, and in the Southern United States, other foods rule (although I’ve never really understood the appeal of slime— well, frying saves anything), and I sat back and wished for a pocketful of heaven to warm my hands, to feed me— but I could just listen to her chewing at the other end of the line and dream. line count: 25 Prompt 15 ▼ |
| she asked me: what is love? and I paused, trying to describe chocolate brown hugs, and harmonic silvers singing together, and dragon green words flowing together, and sharing peals of sunrise gold and pink laughter--together. finally, I explained: when it has just rained over a desert and breaking through clouds comes our sun’s ginger yellow heat, baking it dry again, that’s when our world smells blue like love: it’s a blue of clear skies. wedding breakfast blue. a blue of babies, freshly bathed and powdered. line count: 24 hearing silver feeling/tasting yellow smelling blue 1. harmonic silvers 2. dragon green 3. sunrise gold and pink 4. ginger yellow 5. wedding breakfast blue Prompt 14 ▼ |
| I brought him home just yesterday— and mayhem did ensue. but he goes on the naughty list for chewing on my shoe. last night he left his cozy bed— to curl himself in mine, I woke to those colossal snores and that endearing whine. I left him be so I could shower— he met me at the door, with puppy great big eyes imploring me to ignore the floor. and so I pet his wagging tail and lectured him on why my flamingo wasn’t his. he listened with a sigh. that’s why his stocking’s full of coal and why I’ve mismatched shoes, and why pink feathers fill my house— and why I need a snooze. line count: 20 Prompt 13 ▼ |
| ten months old. she spent the season exploring the house— discovering paper and ribbons, toys hidden in the corners where Mama had stowed them for Santa’s approval. she could climb and adored the new game called unwrapping, tearing with little fingers and draping herself in glittering remnants, while Mama sighed and wrapped again, trying to find some new hiding place. Christmas dawned. all the packages gathered together under the tree, but she wailed, not exploring, growing heavier and hotter. the only package opened was a plush ghost with a musical center, that she held, cuddling close to Mama, fevered and miserable, while Mama sighed, disappointed, and saved the presents for tomorrow, when she was well again. line count: 30 Prompt 12 ▼ |
| winter landscape— snow, icicles. wind bites. cold chafes. red cheeks, brittle lashes. suddenly—miracle appears. reindeer stomp, snort. Yule log burns. charcoal bags await naughty children. elves dream impossible toys. Father Christmas welcomes— hot chocolate ambrosia, iced cookies, milk, random carrots. everyone working. pick up tools— knit blond doll wig, sew princess dress. q-tip blue paint eyes. peppermint cane guards. cinnamon essence perfumes. tinsel. fairy lights. bells. singing, laughing, joy. line count: 24 Prompt 11 ▼ |
| I hear that the blizzard will linger for days— but we shouldn’t care— we are on holiday! we’re all done with shopping. our cupboards are full. we’ve plenty of water and needles and wool. our medicine’s stocked and our blankets are many and I’ve been to the library— books, we have plenty. I hear that they’re planning to measure in feet, but why should we care? we both here, off the street. we’ve plenty of wood and the fire is bright— even though the electric might fail in the night. the candles are stocked and the matches are found and our solar powered backup is perfectly sound. best of all, you’re here with me. we’ll cuddle up tight— our love will secure us throughout this cold night. we’re all ready now and we’ve nowhere to go— we’ll snuggle in close though the blizzard may blow. we won’t care a bit— let it snow, let it snow. what the heck, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. line count: 36 Prompt 10 ▼ |
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