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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/books/item_id/2081410-constructing-poetry/sort_by/entry_order DESC, entry_creation_time DESC/page/4
by Rhyssa
Rated: 18+ · Book · Contest Entry · #2081410
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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May 12, 2016 at 1:34am
May 12, 2016 at 1:34am
#881919
I dream of you,
though we’ve never met—
the beat of your heart,
the shape of your walk,
the taste of your breath,
the touch of forever
when we take hands.

I look for you
in every face I pass,
wondering who you are.
I’ve never looked for
beauty—that’s too easily found,
too easily lost.
I look for you in smiles—
in the laughter of friends,
in the value you’ll show
for my mind,
my heart,
my choices.

I plan for you
with what I’ve made of me—
learning, growing, becoming,
more with every day.
I won’t be perfect,
but I want to match you,
strength for strength,
hand for hand,
dream for dream—
I dream of you.
do you dream of me?

Prompt: 11 May
May 10, 2016 at 10:36pm
May 10, 2016 at 10:36pm
#881826
without a mirror
try to imagine
the face you’ll see tomorrow,
the new lines,
the browns shading into grey,
the scars etched
that you will gain unnoticed,
in careless places.

try to imagine
the kinds of sacrifice
that will place those lines
where they will be
so visible,
the cliffs you will climb,
the mountains you will trudge,
the thermals you will catch
to carry you high
or drop you low.

a lifetime is too short
to become the you
you think you are.
it is just long enough
to do,
to be,
to grow into--
yourself.

Prompt for: May 10, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 10:27pm
May 9, 2016 at 10:27pm
#881720
minute increments of duration
whisper past us,
one, two, ten,
never ceasing
marching from infinite
to infinite—
starting,
stopping,
stepping,
dancing.

there is no order
to their dance,
no way to calculate the measure
between one instant
and the next.
we try to count them,
catch their rhythm,
first, second, twenty-seventh,
but our hearts are too loud,
and we live too hard
to watch them pass—

let us dance.
let the moments
care for themselves.

Prompt: 9 May
May 9, 2016 at 12:15am
May 9, 2016 at 12:15am
#881646
Dad butchered
the crepe myrtle,
cut it back until it was
nothing more than
two thin sticks sprouted
from a common root.

it was time, he said,
too many branches
overburdening the top
means not enough flowers
reaching out to touch
the sky.

we laughed that winter,
as we passed the tiny
stumps in the middle
of the lawn in a bed
of daffodils.
we laughed because
Dad was overzealous,
a certified killer,
too quick with the pruning
shears—too ready to
chop gratuitously.

until spring came,
and buds formed,
and leaves and branches
came thick and fast
as though the tree had been
waiting for someone
to give it a new path.

and the flowers.
we had never seen such
flowers as erupted,
pink and vibrant
on that butchered tree.

Prompt for: May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 12:31am
May 8, 2016 at 12:31am
#881578
I walked with her that night,
hoping to avoid induction.
her first baby,
my first niece or nephew
two weeks overdue.

down hospital corridors
and back again,
we paced and talked
and speculated about
just who would come,
tomorrow—and she shared
her worry. what kind of mother
would she be?

tomorrow came, my niece
with it, I stayed with them,
keeping watch over baby sneezes
while her mother slept.

nine years. three sons later,
(one dead too quickly),
I marvel at her strength.
even losing her eye
didn’t turn her bitter.
that loss was nothing
when she thought of her lost boy.

music was always her gift—
she played piano at four,
and worked pit with her xylophone
in marching band.
now she shares that gift
with her children.

they study together,
mother and children,
every morning, singing
with childlike zeal
of history and geography
biology and physics—
even her youngest
reciting facts that she defines
as they learn to ask—
to understand.

I’ve seen her lose patience,
but remain calm—
so very unlike my little sister
when we were young—
talking them down,
pulling them short,
picking her battles.

her home isn’t tidy,
but is full of music and
laughing. and it is strange
to think that my little sister
has changed so that I
think of her as mother, first.
a mother I would
be proud to be.

line count: 55

Prompt: 7 May

Alphabetical Word List
May 7, 2016 at 2:25am
May 7, 2016 at 2:25am
#881520
it’s difficult to tame
a saguaro. their lives
are protected by reams
of red tape, and are not
easily transplanted. so my
garden has none. and no
cholla—jumping cactus best
exist at a distance
as vast cholla fields are burned
to save the cattle.
they are too big for me.

my garden is a tiny bowl
populated by Christmas cacti
that bloom in the winter—reds
and pinks and golds
waving me near enough
to try their spines.
one green bud is so
covered with needles, so tiny,
so thick, they look like they’re
soft enough to pet,
but when I do, my fingers
pay the price.

I keep it, tucked away
in a corner, a slice
of home.

Prompt for: May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 2:16am
May 6, 2016 at 2:16am
#881457
it is morning
and she’s heading for the door,
my door, my she,
and I twine around the legs
of my she to remind her—
it’s time for my food
in my little dish
in my corner,
not the icky dry food
my she sometimes buys
that I refuse to eat
because I deserve better,
but my soft food
that comes from cans.
I wish my she would learn
to open more quickly.

and then she leaves
because it is my time.
I check every room
for my toys, but
my she accidently left
the door to my toilet closed,
and the white sheets
that shred so nicely
are locked away.
and the bin
has nothing good smelling—
only white plastic.
I check, because sometimes
she hides good things to eat there
for me to find.

I stalk my perimeter,
making sure every window
is looking out on my bushy prey
and my scampering prey
and my flying prey—
my she feeds them
so they linger and I watch them
and plan their deaths.

I climb the curtain
that my she calls lace,
which has little holes
perfect for my claws,
and curl on my window sill
to bask in my sun.
I like the warm.

when she comes home
I am not happy
because she is mine
and she is changing clothes
as though it is time to leave
when it is my time.
I think my she is going to see
him. I do not give
my permission for my she
to let him into my home.
he is rough and smells
of canine and is not worthy of my she.

I scratched the leg of him.
the blood of him
tasted sweet when I cleaned
my claws.

Prompt for: May 5, 2016 ERE
May 5, 2016 at 12:02am
May 5, 2016 at 12:02am
#881385
we are braided together—
like strands of yarn
so different in texture and color
that it’s impossible to imagine
how alike we are—
silk and wool intertwined
with linen and bamboo,
and the unexpected fibers—
nylon, rayon, glittered plastic
that lend us shine.

we balance each other—
each one who joins us
becomes inevitable.
necessary for the whole,
reaching back and forward
into eternity.

I cannot imagine life without
each of you.
your aromas fill my lungs,
your musics beat in my veins,
I ache with you.

even when our lives move us apart,
so far apart,
I’m stronger because of you
your fierce support
sustains me.

there is no separation.
no way to define me, anymore
not without you—
all of you.
and when the inevitability of death
touches one of us,
we mourn our loss,
but the strands our dead gave
have changed us,
deepened us,
forever.

Prompt for: May 4, 2016


May 4, 2016 at 1:18am
May 4, 2016 at 1:18am
#881318
it never fails—
there I am, typing away
my head stuck within
a fictional mind,
my dragon soaring so fast
and high that I’m not sure
I can sustain the pace,
and it’s smooth.
the sounds of the house
are hidden behind
earplugs that pour
a classical soundtrack
on a loop—Vivaldi to
Wagner, Saint Saens to Ravel—
wordless thunder crashes
and eldritch screams
and discordances that make
my pulse sing and my
thoughts race into story.
I haven’t eaten in hours,
but I don’t feel the lack
because the flow is magic . . .

and then, the phone rings.
I barely hear it—I try to ignore it—
but it could be family
so I strip away
the headphones and untangle
my laptop from my arm, and stand,
heading to answer—
only to hear a recorded voice
pretending to be a human
ask me if I needed a wireless
security system—
which we don’t.
we have one already,
and I hang up without thanking
or saying goodbye,
but when I flop back down
on the couch
and pull my laptop back,
my dragon has gone
and I’m left in the middle
of a song, in the middle
of the story, lost.

Prompt for: May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 12:05am
May 3, 2016 at 12:05am
#881217
Memphis means seeds wafting
over the landscape
in clouds of tree fluff—

as though we dwell in
a shaken globe,
the shape within the glass
covered in a perpetual drift
while a music box whistles
of flowers that bloom in May.

I see it, try to catch
a white fuzz shape between
my outstretched fingers,
but I am too slow.

the wind of my passing
stirs and it circles aloft again
to find some bit
of fertile ground—some
place where the tiny
bit of genetic material
can turn into something
grand. fantastic.

who would imagine
a tree could be contained
on a breath of wind.

line count: 24

Prompt for: May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 2:00am
May 2, 2016 at 2:00am
#881114
night is a dance—
attack and retreat,
twirl and twist,
an endless negotiation between
my spinning mind
and my desire for sleep—
there is no rest as
problems circle into
a nightmare of waking.

the first measure starts
as footsteps climb the stairs,
their familiar rhythm a signal
that night has begun.

silence. I feel my heart
pulse in my fingers,
in my neck,
in my feet that twitch.
the beat is held by blood
and clockwork ticking past midnight.

I dance the rituals
that signal that it’s past time.
the lights can go out.
I put down my book,
tuck away my yarn,
shake pills into my hand,
taste my blood—
copper bright,
brush my teeth—
cinnamon mint,
dress, tuck myself away
into the soft cloud
of my feather bed.

I close my eyes,
and the melody bursts inside my eyelids
in ripples of red and blue,
gold and green,
swirling together and apart.
five minutes, ten.
the light blooms again,
an expression of my surrender
to wakefulness.

and so I take my book again,
my eyes burning
as I lose myself within the pages
until the smell of ink soothes me,
until dawn spills her light
onto my bed,
and sleep finally carries me away.

Prompt for: May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 12:55am
May 1, 2016 at 12:55am
#880972
my living room is invaded.
Uncle Seymore’s desk,
looming like a mausoleum
imposing, cold,
home to all the family skeletons
except his own.

when it first came to me,
I asked Mama who Seymore Z. FitzSimmons was,
and what the Z was for,
and whether we really needed a desk
that weighed more than
couch, television, and piano combined,
but she just shook her head as she stared.

he’d sit there, she told me,
with spectacles perched
at the tip of his nose,
ready to be pushed up
when my cousins and I
dared enter. then he would look
down, staring at us until
we felt we must tell him . . . all.

she circled it as she talked,
keeping what distance she could
as though it were explosive.
one day he caught me, she said,
I’d almost forgotten.
his fingers were ink stained
and long, and they gripped my shoulder
like a vulture’s talons, and he showed
the desk to me.

she approached it then,
like a kitten approaching a sleeping
snake, curious but skittish.
I wonder if I remember . . .
and then she reached out and pressed
the top of the lectern
while twisting one drawer handle
the wrong way, and like a giant
puzzle box, the desk opened
and at its heart, reams of paper
stained with a clear hand.

the skeletons unveiled, she left me,
and I gathered the pages,
reading stories of half forgotten
names and half familiar deeds
recorded by the one
who knew all the stories.

I’ve read them through,
and noticed the absence
that glares at me—no tales
belong to Seymore Z. FitzSimmons.
he shared everyone’s stories,
but never even told me
the meaning of his Z.

line count: 54

Prompt for: April 30, 2016
April 30, 2016 at 2:05am
April 30, 2016 at 2:05am
#880864
I wonder sometimes,
in the murky calm of sleep,
who I will be
when I’m finished.

I aspire to be great—
to write the visions in my head,
to share those stories
with people everywhere
who will read
and laugh
and cry
and fall in love,
just a little bit—

I aspire to love—
the complicated kind
that involves completion
and laughter
and fighting
and children
and a home
where we can grow old together—

I aspire to live
to see a day when sugar
means something good, again,
and I only see
accidental blood.

but I live under a mortal sun,
and my wishing will never
make someone find a cure
or fall in love with me
or read what I write.

my life is a constant challenge,
shaping myself with careful strokes
so that when a wish comes true,
I will be ready to leap.

Prompt for: April 29, 2016
April 29, 2016 at 2:18am
April 29, 2016 at 2:18am
#880757
I thought my fate was you,
but you were gone.
church bells tolled
your death knell,
and I was left hollow
by your absence
to wander through
forgotten alleys
and rain darkened streets,

until, lost at some forgotten shop,
unseen and overlooked,
I entered, uncaring what
I might find.
my life was dust.

I passed trunks
and jewels,
tapestries, and one
unadorned ring,
skeletal hands
beating heart rhythms,
books whose pages
whispered secrets,
swords and staves—
and nothing
spoke to me until I saw
your mirrored shadow dancing,
and I stopped.

that mirror is old,
whispered three voices
in unified discord.
beware, for he catches
those who gaze too long
singing empty promises.
he seeks someone to share
his fate.

I turned, but three
women were winking
their one eye
and turning away—
and I forgot their warning
because in that mirror
I almost saw you.

I reached to your image
touched hands through glass,
stepped through—

but you vanished
and I was trapped.
my sorrow feeds him,
he will not let me go,
and I dwindle, forgetting you
forgetting me
inside this ornate gilt frame.

Prompt for: April 28, 2016
April 28, 2016 at 1:56am
April 28, 2016 at 1:56am
#880614
love starts so small
a kernel hovering between us
linked by our outstretched hearts,
our heated eyes,
ready to germinate—
if I take your hand
we will breathe it into life.

I hesitate, wondering
if its future shape
is worth taking a step
into the dark.
our lives might
come together and bloom
into a fractal universe—a simple
shape more intricate
as it is examined.
all beginnings are fraught with
possibility—
I could explore infinity with you.

you reach out and promise
to listen and to laugh
to taste our tears with me
to trace our happiness over and over
until it’s etched between us
to tend our love with me
until it becomes
everything we can be.

I reach to take your hand
and we fall.

Prompt for: April 27, 2016

April 27, 2016 at 2:12am
April 27, 2016 at 2:12am
#880526
I’m a wordsmith by trade, but
when I saw her in the NICU
standing over Caleb,
her finger stroking his little hand
singing the same songs
she’d shared with him
when he was still within her—
when he was still whole—
my craft deserted me.

there are no words to say anything
to a new mother
as she loses her child by inches.
I tried them in my head.
reassuring, faith filled,
mourning, simple,
hopeful, complicated
words, filled my head
with noise until I was drowning
in possibilities—

all inadequate. instead,
I held her hand, watched with her
in silence, turned my head
and closed my eyes
when she begged me
not to look at her.

they all stare at me, she said,
and I knew why they stared
because I felt myself doing it—
watching her to see where she
needed me, hoping for a clue,
a hint of which word she needed.
but their looks—our looks—
made her feel naked
raw.

brain dead. simple words
made the next steps necessary.
and impossible.
she held him in her arms
for the first time,
for the last time,
and sang a wordless song to him
to guard his way.

Prompt for: April 26, 2016
April 26, 2016 at 12:00am
April 26, 2016 at 12:00am
#880423
when thinking of just who I am,
my every inclination
I swear the most annoying one
is this: procrastination.

you see, the things I’m supposed to do
like working on my thesis
loom in my head so large and strong
that I go right to pieces,

and instead of doing what I should
I’m trapped online instead
and silly games on Kongregate
are mobile my head.

and when the dishes are undone
the food upon them stewing,
I sit and read a book—watch me,
I am instead of doing.

my room’s a mess with empty shelves
and books stacked on the floor—
while look at me, my Netflix’s on
I knit and watch some more.

but never fear, I have a plan,
I’ll write. I’ll clean this heap—
it’s half past midnight, time for chores—
I’ll just instead of sleep.

line count: 24

Prompt for: April 24, 2016
April 25, 2016 at 2:15am
April 25, 2016 at 2:15am
#880290
they took the rest of you
away from me,
buried it deep
and thought I had lost.
they were wrong.
the memory of you
surrounds me
a constant wisp of color
at the edge of sight, a subtle
tune that pulls
at my ears until
I can’t move
without you.

the echo of you
wakes me, the constant
beeping of the monitors
has filled our home
for so long that I hear it still and
rise to search you out,
but true glimpses
escape me.

I haven’t touched
our bed. for too long
it was your prison
and I, the warden
of your comfort and health
regulated myself
to catnaps
and a sterilized mask.
I feel naked without it now,
as I sit and watch
your empty bed.
as soon as I turn away,
I feel you there.

at night, when I
close my eyes,
the essence of you
lingers near
and I see you, bending
to kiss my forehead
as I have kissed yours.
I can feel
the pressure of your lips
smell a hint
of your perfume,
wafting down the hall.

please, come a little closer.
let me touch you once again.

line count: 48

Prompt for: April 24, 2016
April 24, 2016 at 12:41am
April 24, 2016 at 12:41am
#880202
do you remember?

that night. the fight
outside, the world hurled rain.
trees bowed down, and
shutters crashed, but
within the wind blew hot
and strong, with long hard words
catapulting abuse. no bruises
or bloodshed stained our bed.
no, the hurt was soul deep, subtle.

do you remember?

because we loved,
weaknesses once
learned—earned with trust
now spat in combat.
I hurt you and you hurt me
with truths we swore never to use.

do you remember?

afterward, unheard words
caught beneath my teeth.
I watched the sky crack.
alone. home shattered—

do you remember?

can you help me find the pieces
and fit us together again?

line count: 25

Prompt for: April 23, 2016
April 23, 2016 at 12:20am
April 23, 2016 at 12:20am
#880079
that a friendly instincts instead
of shyness had prevailed
on that plane with a child
kicking in the seat behind.
A smile could have made
that mother’s journey
much sweeter.

that instead of lingering
for endless days of waiting,
clinging to something
that never could live,
it could have died cleanly.
Two lives become increasingly
difficult to unmesh with time.

that a single word,
carelessly spoke,
had failed to emerge
and a friendship remain
untainted. Respect is so
simple a word
that can be heard so differently.

that there could have been
one more hour to spend
in the NICU, listening
to the flutter of heartbeat,
breathing together
before letting the baby
go. One more minute.
One more instant. Five
days was eternally too short.

Prompt for: April 22, 2016

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