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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/sort_by_last/entry_order DESC, entry_creation_time DESC/page/2
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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December 2, 2018 at 12:19am
December 2, 2018 at 12:19am
#946683
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
December 1, 2018 at 12:44am
December 1, 2018 at 12:44am
#946628
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
November 29, 2018 at 1:39pm
November 29, 2018 at 1:39pm
#946536
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
November 28, 2018 at 2:31pm
November 28, 2018 at 2:31pm
#946476
white snow blankets all—
bare trees promise "life returns,
when we wake again."

Prompt 6
November 27, 2018 at 1:21pm
November 27, 2018 at 1:21pm
#946410
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
November 27, 2018 at 12:10am
November 27, 2018 at 12:10am
#946375
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
November 25, 2018 at 7:11pm
November 25, 2018 at 7:11pm
#946287
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
November 24, 2018 at 11:46pm
November 24, 2018 at 11:46pm
#946236
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
November 24, 2018 at 12:13am
November 24, 2018 at 12:13am
#946147
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
February 28, 2018 at 9:53pm
February 28, 2018 at 9:53pm
#929645
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
February 27, 2018 at 10:33pm
February 27, 2018 at 10:33pm
#929580
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
February 26, 2018 at 10:34pm
February 26, 2018 at 10:34pm
#929528
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
February 25, 2018 at 8:04pm
February 25, 2018 at 8:04pm
#929469
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
February 24, 2018 at 9:10pm
February 24, 2018 at 9:10pm
#929412
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
February 24, 2018 at 1:20am
February 24, 2018 at 1:20am
#929380
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
February 23, 2018 at 1:42am
February 23, 2018 at 1:42am
#929339
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
February 22, 2018 at 12:48am
February 22, 2018 at 12:48am
#929294
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
February 21, 2018 at 1:10am
February 21, 2018 at 1:10am
#929244
consider the river, surface still,
depths swift between bridge’s arcs.
each water drop bears a ghostly echo
of oceans, puddles—so remote from this temple.
--
the river is more than water. and so I
have crossed my rivers many times.
--

line count: 6

Prompt
February 20, 2018 at 12:14am
February 20, 2018 at 12:14am
#929194
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
February 18, 2018 at 8:14pm
February 18, 2018 at 8:14pm
#929129
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

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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/sort_by_last/entry_order DESC, entry_creation_time DESC/page/2