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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in the middle of the earth is a cave where the world tree grows the kallikantzaroi chop at it— just why? nobody knows. they try to make the world fall down for mischief—I suppose. but Christmas eve begins a siege that lasts for twelve dark nights when kallikantzaroi leave their sawing down because there’s little light— instead, they come to reign in mischief with bumbling skill and might they slip like shadows into towns and cities found in Greece those naked men with long dark tails and blind eyes never cease to creep into each happy home just to disturb its peace. where kitchens once were spick and span they leave a royal mess, they block up chimneys, sour milk, and then they’ll reassess to see what other awful things would cause the max distress. but grannies know the ways and means to stop them, don’t you see? a colander placed at the door will keep a household free— they’ll stop to count the holes, but never, ever count to three. a log to burn for twelve long nights will stop those goblins, too. they’re scared of the sun and holy water and burning, stinky shoes, and so, to keep them far away is quite easy to do. and when Epiphany dawns bright and clear their siege at last is ended. they slink back into the world tree’s cave to find it whole. all mended. and so they snarl and raise their saws to chop it down again. line count: 42 Prompt 9 ▼ |
I was sixteen when she was born, a tiny thing, so easily cradled in the crook of my elbow, and I wanted to shield her, to stand between her and hurt. twenty-five years later . . . I think of her voice—clear and pure, and the way she moves effortlessly from one melody to the next as the phrase takes her, and I laugh as the song changes to where I cannot follow. I think of color— bright rainbows and wheels and dark landscapes, fireworks and flowers and shades and hues and permutations of color that my untrained eye can only glimpse as she points them out with artist’s fingers. I think of eyes. I see things differently knowing that the words that come so clearly to me are reduced to colors and shapes— words coming last to her, and I long for her world where other people's meaning is shadowed. I think of those hands, that laugh, the puzzled look she gives as she tries to understand a world that isn’t as honest as she needs it to be— and I want to shield her. but I can’t. she’s too tall to fit in my shadow anymore. line count: 40 Prompt 8 ▼ |
after the cradle and the room she’d decorated so hopefully in yellows and whites were reduced to boxes, still, at odd times something would jog her memory making her eyes burn her breath catch, her arms ache with the weight she would never hold— the dance of light over some random baby laughing at the air, the song of lullabies drifting near as she walked past the toy store, the ornament marked ‘Baby’s First Christmas’—bought in anticipation, before— slipping from her fingers, landing in shards on the floor, blurring in the flood from her heart, released again. line count: 24 Prompt 7 ▼ |
white snow blankets all— bare trees promise "life returns, when we wake again." Prompt 6 ▼ |
I’ll be home for Christmas— in my head these words sing with train rhythms as I sit and watch landscapes passing. mountain passes climbing through evergreens with first hints of snow. I take pictures through train windows and send to Mama so she can wonder with me. as we climb, snow grows thicker until grass is covered—distantly I see cattle, dark shapes placid, munching, with bales upon bales of hay piled nearby in preparation for later storms. two, four, six, eight inches deep—tracks are paralleled by wire fences to warn of avalanches, but surely daily trains prove our safety. through tunnels we climb past all hope of cell phone connection while rivers tumble by far below—water shaping mountains. finally we reach a tunnel so long, so high that at its end, snow falls— a faint glitter kissing mountain air I can barely see through train windows as we head down, out of winter towards Christmas and home. line count: 30 Prompt 5 ▼ |
I came to life in a twisting, writhing coil, and I creaked with pain as I fought the hands turning simple boughs into beauty— until I caught a glimpse of me in the window pane. see me? I’m more than evergreen— I’m hidden berries poking unexpected red and the smell of pine and oranges and cinnamon. I’m a golden ribbon wrapped and tied into a bow that dwarfs your simple doorknob. I am magnificent. and as the snow catches on my needles, it gives me a coat of glitter you are unworthy to come home to. but I’ll let you in anyway, for the smile you give as you pass. line count: 28 Prompt4 ▼ |
some people string lights until their houses glitter red and green and blue and purple and gold and white and their lawns erupt with blow up Santas and nativities and animatronic reindeer crashing into their roofs with a humorous kick of their hooves, and lightshows that blink in time with radio stations and wreaths centered in every window and door and I pass them on the street and gasp and stare. there is a house in town that I’ve appointed unofficial winner, whose house is as adorned as a parcel and as shining as a gingerbread castle, and everywhere I go, I find an excuse to pass that house so I can awe, before returning to my simple dwelling, where two strings of icicles welcome me from where they yawn over the upstairs windows giving my home a sleepy grandeur— eyelashes drifting shut. word count: 143 Prompt 3 ▼ |
you lot are all total pumpkins! Cousin Emily shouted, and we looked around for signs of orange shells and general seediness, but all we saw were familiar faces—Uncle Andrew expressing temper until his ears turned tomato red, and Great-aunt Janaleigh smiling sweeter than maple syrup while thinking of something truly dreadful to say, and little Nikki swiping her finger clean, and so we nodded, agreeing, agreeable— which is why Emily started throwing things, we decided later as we toweled the leftovers away. line count: 18 Prompt 2 ▼ |
at half past dawn, in the company of three thousand five hundred seventy-two strangers, I formed a line. it clumped and milled and stomped its feet like a herd of cattle, spooked. ready to stampede at the first sign of movement from the gate guarding glass doors. our breath curled patterns in the air our noses dripped. do you know how long it takes earwax to freeze? we do. line time lasts eternities. I personally witnessed three marriage proposals, a divorce, and the birth of a litter of Chihuahuas from the purse of a surprised woman, before dawn broke, and in its light we saw the metal rise. and we ran inside—a mad dash three thousand five hundred seventy-three strangers strong— our line breaking into individual spenders. and I felt its absence like an empty hand or a hunger . . . or a rush of melting earwax, so wrong. so terribly wrong. line count: 38 Prompt ▼ |
I dream of them, sometimes, when I’m sitting at my laptop waiting for the next prompt to drop like an anvil on my head. in the vision, their heads are together, across miles and computer wires, and they’re rubbing their hands together as they think up— a witch’s brew of torture. let’s start with form, Ren says, clear, direct, short, wise. Fyn nods. additionally, let’s include three obscure required words, preferably archaic and complicated enough that spell check will think we’re lying. furthermore, let us forbid all articles and pronouns, as well as all prepositions with less than four letters. it is at this point, as they cackle with delight at the thought of the hoops the next prompt will guide us through, that I wake with a cackle on my lips. once, Fyn revealed the final prompt, sixty forbidden words long, followed by the real prompt, not nearly as cruel— but interesting, always interesting. once, I learned Ren sees and hears all. she took something that I said and turned it into the prompt: poetic particles of dust. I loved writing that poem. I love the obscure forms and words (even the ones that mean my rhythm falters) the cup requires. I love to twist my words into a lacework, surrounding the words I cannot use. and that’s why, even when the cup feels more than my tired mind can bear, I am here, first, waiting, my fingers poised for Ren and Fyn to brew their worst— I take it into me, and stir up something in my own cauldron, that amazes me. line count: 53 Prompt ▼ |
at the end of things, I remember. to throw a pot well, requires a thousand hours of throwing poor pots, each time the clay becomes more obedient to the potter’s will, more willing to be shaped, because the potter’s hands grow stronger, surer— and so it is in everything. words are my clay, my canvas, my yarn— and to turn them into dream, I must work with them, constantly. consistently. as I end a challenge to write poetry every day, following the prompts with exactness— I remember why I promised myself to write every day, polishing, honing, becoming better with every word. line count: 22 Prompt ▼ |
the Olympic road starts months in advance, as throughout the world knitters hold their breath, waiting for the pattern’s drop. and deep within cottages and condos—amid cats and spinning wheels, the knitters are off, women and men choosing their tools with precision—double points or circulars, acrylics or wools or more exotic fibers— needles and yarn in Olympic colors. hats. knit perfectly, with photo proof— that the pattern was followed, the brim was ribbed, the top was decreased, and that the hat could be worn by an adult— children’s hats need not apply. the photos mark the finish line, as one by one, in country after country, knitters finish amid acclaim. wait too long—and the road ends. only one champion from each nation need knit, the Olympic flame for their backdrop. Prompt ▼ |
my daddy taught us rhythm at the keyboard— just two fingers, he said. one on each hand, and count: one, two, three, four, five, change. one two three, four five change, one two three, four five change, one-hold, two three repeat, then the chorus: one hold-two, three hold-four, five hold-six, one two three four hold-five one two three four hold-five, and done. in the bass, he rounded out the melody—ohm, pah, pah, ohm, pah, pah, and suddenly, we played music. not just chopsticks. we laughed, sitting on the bench that my mama covered in patchwork—lavender and blue to protect it from scratches and mud and grass stains and the occasional dog slobber. when we knew it, he taught us the bass, and we’d play ohm, pah, pah, while he played chopsticks like we hadn’t heard it before— one-y, two-y, three-y, four, five, six— and we stopped playing to see what he was doing, but he said, just play, and we did, and suddenly, we were playing something new. and then he changed again. we knew better to stop this time, as he played chopsticks one, two, three, four, down, six. and then we switched, so that we could learn. my sister learned best. she plays chopsticks two handed, her left hand on the bass, while her right hand to play the melody. and her children look on and ask, show me how, and they play chopsticks, two fingered and laughing, theme and variations. line count: 50 Prompt ▼ |
a companion to keep my sweetheart company while I’m away one long eternity of a week. must have a waggly tail and give slobbery kisses and be willing to bark in an incessant frenzy when potential harm is determined (from robbers or mailmen or elephants on the television or repairmen or people walking peacefully by on the other side of the street). must not be of the feline persuasion. my sweetheart is allergic to purring. line count: 16 How Much Is that Doggie in the Window Prompt ▼ |
you never saw the resentment carried within me, a canker, gnawing until nothing was left but you, the way you made anything appear so easy, while others stumbled, the way you had everything, and left nothing for anyone else. deep inside, the guilt was a jumbled mass of bile eating through the realization, you weren’t the one at fault. you should be free to shine without making some angry witch want to pry everything that you had from your hands, and then come in like a bulldozer and turn it into a pile of rubble. destruction is easy. you have never had a talent for it, because you are one of the builders, the ones who make the world better for your touch— or at least, it always seemed so, from my festering abode. but no one is perfect. the key was that day when we cried together because your heart had been shredded beyond repair, and I was helpless to help you. the sore was lanced, and a the mass of jealousy and hatred left like pus from a wound, and all that was left, were realizations. the only person hurt by resentment is the one feeling it. no life is perfect. anyone can learn to build. line count: 40 Prompt ▼ |
1. the only reason I don’t hate it when you’re outward bound, is that when you come home, I feel our heartbeats sync, and I love you again. 2. finding a stranger who becomes a friend is like reaching for a golden ring and winding up with a star— as we meet, you shine. 3. from you, I learned more about how my stories worked, about how to trim and polish— we leave now, for new horizons and adventures. thank you. I’m better for your influence. 4. good morning, Mother. today you join my blood obsession, one glucose check each morning, a new custom. and I know you fear. I promise I will guide you stand by you, as you always do me. 5. when I first knew you, we thought to cleave unto each other, forever. but time and distance cleave us apart, and I fear I’ll never know your voice again. line count: 22 Prompt ▼ |
he stole our faces, the emperor, with his implacable will that said we should serve and follow him into eternity. an honor. his glory. and so the sculptors brought us in, by ones and twos, turning our faces into stone— and when we saw them standing there, the statues with our faces we felt cold. for when we died (as all men must) we knew we would be carried deep within the earth to stand with our faces turned toward the standard, waiting. when the emperor calls, and he will one day, we will arise. we will march, wielding our swords and spears and bows and chariots, riding our stone horses to fight some future foe. line count: 30 Prompt ▼ |
tonight, I know no more will my feet plod along the unforgiving ground— tonight, I fly through constellations, the shimmer of diamond on fire against the velvet sky. I pirouette around the sullen ruby of Mars, extend my leg in an arabesque as I touch the clouded pearl of Venus and pause, reaching my fingers across light years and time, to touch the brilliant sapphire of Cygnus and the cooler garnet that is Betelgeuse. the Milky Way is my stage as I lift the spiral diadem that is Andromeda, for my crown, for I am the sky, the distant stars glitter—a jeweled patina on my cloak as I stretch over the night, above farmlands and towns, railroads and motorways, strewn over the landscape like beads in an artist’s drawer— jade and hematite topaz and bloodstone— pausing their dance as I yawn and let my star eyes dim into a deeper dream. line count: 32 Prompt ▼ |
maybe someday, my sisters (I have four)—the ones who have married and moved far away— will linger close one new year (we hold Christmas late so all can attend) and hand me an envelope— we are married, they’ll say, and we wanted that luck and chaos and fear and happiness and pain to be yours as well. and I’ll open it, and bow my thanks and hug them for their pains before sending them back to husbands and children. and maybe their luck will be shared in that little envelope. line count: 21 Prompt ▼ |