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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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| your words are like a string of lanterns marking the path from a person with ideas in his head, which someday would be written, to a writer—they give me hope for my own words. I follow you through the years spent writing on napkins at coffee shops while mixing drinks between sentences—I follow you through the endless stamps sending words out into the aether, hoping for discovery—I follow you through the time when the only people still believing were your wife and your mother, and even they were more inclined to send you to do laundry than to your desk to write more. we aren’t so different, you and I, although I stumble sometimes as I follow your torch— someday, perhaps, my lanterns will burn brighter than yours— but if so, it will be because you gave me a path that lead to the stars. line count: 33 Prompt ▼ |
| my dragon entered my life not in billowing flame and winged dances but sneakily, oozing beyond my defenses like a shadow until all I knew was him. and he settled, spreading his wings breathing acid into my veins until they turned sweet and my breath grew short and I ached so much. the hospital, and the IVs and the pads counting my body’s motions which burned my skin off underneath them—even that new reality was relief. some dragons never go away. he changed me creating a new version of myself I hardly knew. I was thirty-one when the dragon came, but I can’t remember a time when my body was my own— when I didn’t have to count every bite that entered my mouth— when I didn’t spend my days obsessing over blood. but I found a way to. embrace my dragon, learning his rhythms and my new body. I live still. and so, I triumph. every finger prick, every insulin syringe is cathartic—me, taking the saddle and feeling my dragon fly. line count: 39 Prompt ▼ |
| once, when the world was incredibly young, a wise king ruled the land, though he wanted a son. his queen was so beautiful, wonderful, fair— and barren—their voices rose skyward in prayer: “please answer our please we’ve given our best— ruled both justly and fairly—withstood every test, but without a strong prince for a wise and just heir, our people and kingdom will lack proper care.” their voice rose daily and into the night, until in a dream the queen saw a fine sight— an iridescent soul came to bring her a son. she knelt and she pled, “please let him be the one.” the angel replied, “this young baby I hold will someday be enlightened. will you be so bold as to think you could mother this most special boy?” the queen reached for the baby, “I’ll raise him with joy.” but as she enveloped the boy in her arms, he was heavy as a mountain, and she woke in alarm. she rushed to the king with the news of her dream— but he knew it already, he’d shared dreams with his queen. in the due course of time the queen bore a strong son he was generous, wise, a benevolent one, but as he grew older the world made him sad— the myriad injustices the heartaches, the bad, made him want to be wiser to fix the world’s woes so he gave up his crown to a kind man that he chose to lead the kingdom, to be stalwart and brave, while the young princeling adjourned to a cave. for eons he lived contemplating the earth and growing enlightened—as was told ere his birth, then he saved the heavens from a terrible bother— and was called to rule there as the Heaven’s Grandfather. and thus we can see that the dreams of our hearts will lead to some end never seen at that start. line count: 34 Prompt ▼ |
| I long for home, where I have books on every shelf and a computer ready to translate ideas into story. I’m warm there, heart-happy and surrounded by family— and on days when it’s rainy and cold and I spend hours waiting for the doctor who tells me I weigh too much and takes blood so that I’m bruised and sore, and the people on the road should be fed cyanide (especially the people who treat the grocery store parking lot as though it were a traffic jam) and I’m so tired that the back of eyelids feel as rough as a Komodo Dragon’s smile—that’s when I appreciate home. with dry feet and the smell of potatoes and the sound of Mama killing cute monsters on the computer, so I smile and finally drift away, into sleep. line count: 25 Prompt ▼ |
| when my parents married, they joined traditions— but at our celebration’s heart is cranberry salad. too complicated for ordinary days, but when we give thanks for family, and feasts, and every good thing, we start here. boil cranberries until they pop and burst and smell of harvest time fills all rooms. mash them through a colander—leaving a red mass of gezotts—skins and less edible bits that stain hands and clothes— once my sisters and I shaped them into animals and trees—like play dough, before Mama caught us and threw it away. mix with lemon jello and crushed pineapple, grapes and walnuts and chill overnight. no matter where we gather, in Germany or California, Tennessee or Alabama, this dish holds a place of honor. sisters and brothers, nieces and nephews come laughing and thankful with empty stomachs— dishing cranberry salad onto their plates because it says Thanksgiving. line count: 38 Prompt ▼ |
| Chant the world around once more Hail! Fare thee well, and Hail, again! In the moon’s light, the Night sky Explodes with fire and Stars, until ash clouds streak and Eyes shine and voices die with the year. No one captures the Exact moment the year is born, lost in Wonder and ritual. Yes, the year dies alone, Echoes of the old consumed Again in the chant of the crowd, Raising the year once more. line count: 14 Prompt ▼ |
| as you hold me in your hand, pour your tea and lift me to your lips— can you really see me? I am water and mud, spun and pulled and shaped by practiced hands and dried until only the clay is left. I am fire, baked in the kiln until I am forever changed— nothing can turn me back to simple clay. I am painted cobalt blue and white and fired again so the glaze will set, and all for your tea that you bow over, holding me in your hand—so light, so delicate that the light passes through me and I glow with the memory of fire and water. line count: 22 Prompt ▼ |
| I cast a penny into a well—etched with green from the scandent ivy that drapes it in lace— without the ivy, it wouldn’t be magic, wouldn’t be able to hold my hopes for the year— may I find what I need, a job, insurance, the red and purple cake of yarn that would make a perfect shawl, food I can eat without thinking about the sugar, love, time to write, to finish the novel that I feel flooding my fingers with words, time with my family, especially the ones who are so far away. but as the penny falls, and I shake my head at the Faustian bargain I make between me and the magic—I know that the only hopes granted me, will be those I work for, heart, soul, strength, for the rest of my year. line count: 34 Prompt ▼ |
| my feet never wander down the streets of Taiwan to find an oasis of green in the middle of Taoyuan City— but with my fingers walking, I see it. trees line the roads, as tangled as any copse on the roads I know. it’s bathed in greens—each leaf a shimmer of life, caught by a camera wielding employee of google maps to come to my eye, years and millions of wirelengths later. a manmade cliff of cement towers above the road, with a sign— red with white characters. people hide beyond the fence, and I wonder why they stood there, whether they knew they were being captured for me to see them, across time. the road is shaded, and a van is open on the side of the road with a red umbrella giving more shade to protect a little market, and I see the park and the people, and the signs and the cars, and I know— they are so close to me— they love and shop and think about the green of trees and if they saw me, on some street in Tennessee, they’d ache, as I do, with familiarity. line count: 36 Prompt ▼ |
| the great wyrm sends her talons over the earth, capturing it, desperate for more treasure to be gathered to her heart— gold and precious things, and beauty and grace and most of all, stories, tales wafting from every fire and every bardic tongue to gather beneath her wings. there is no trivial tale. she is greedy for all, swallowing them whole lest she shrivel and die from their lack, but the irony is, her tale could be the greatest of all, but her armor drives away knights and princes, and poets and dreamers, leaving her alone on her horde—gold on her tongue and songs ringing in her ears. Prompt ▼ |
| in every thread, story weaves—binding family together through spider’s art. once, when stories were new, one young wife left her mother’s home for her own. her husband was strong and brave and his emperor loved him and called him battle-commander, miles and months away, while she was left at home, amid servants who knew her not and kept her house clean and kept her food cooked and she was left keeping nothing but her husband, so far away, and she was lonely. and she was bored. she wrote her mother, asking for counsel, and her mother said learn poetry— but she had no gift for words. she wrote her sister, asking for counsel, and her sister said console yourself in your children, but she had no child nor husband at home, she wrote her best friend from childhood, asking for counsel, and her friend said find some young man and explore while your husband is gone, but she loved her husband and could not see another. so, in despair, young wife sat at her window, and looked out after her husband, goddess Zhīzhū, who is Spider, came and smiled, and showed her that between her husband and her was thread, finer than spider silk. “Gather that thread and remember your mother’s teachings, for it is your love and it will bring him home again.” that very hour, she wound yarn and set warp and wove weft using thread made from heart. soon, she had scarf that she sent her husband holding her love and he remembered her and came home again. and she taught her daughters how strong yarn weaves family together. line count: 56 Prompt ▼ |
| last night, I drifted through fever dreams, past the stories I knew into strange, twisted landscapes where roses spoke in riddles, and a thunderstorm rested, calm and tame, behind my left ear— and dreaming, I knew all was as it should be until an unexpected dragon poked her nose up from the shrubbery and asked me to teach her multiplication and I didn’t know what to say, because the numbers were chasing me, and I woke up, cold and wet, as though licked by unexpected dragon fire. line count: 24 |
| it’s warmth. it’s tomatoes, valentines. peppermint candy. it’s a dream. an elegant sports car driving too fast down a closed course. elusive. nothing catches it— but all eyes follow. it’s paint made for toenails or lipstick smudged on a collar. it hides like the glow of a coal banked for the night, ready to be fed so it can burst into an effusive conflagration at one more touch, one more kiss, one more explicit interaction that turns the world inside out. it’s love, passion, anger, rage— it’s the moment when the world darkens to one intense focus. it fills you like the taste of cinnamon or chilies burning like a dragon’s breath until everything in the world is gasping and sweat. line count: 34 Prompt ▼ |
| parents, beware! ignore Sui, his breath, his hand, reaching for your children, sleeping in their beds, brushing back their hair, kissing their heads with foul imitation—and he will take them, forever. one touch—they shiver while a fever burns, twice—their eyes cloud, they enter Sui’s realm. thrice—they are his. no remedy will prosper. but coin, given in love and red paper catches new year light, frightens the demon away. line count: 18 Prompt ▼ |
| deep in the hills, where the giant pandas lumber in robes of shadow and snow, and water collects emerald and sapphire, turquoise and jade, in the cupped hands of a goddess who washes her hair in the essence of purity, tourists gather. they walk the valleys and take pictures of the still water mirroring the hills beyond, the trees crisscrossed on the bottom, like warriors felled in some ancient battle. they walk the valleys and laugh and eat picnics and tell stories about the lake monster and shiver until they shake off the eeriness of legend, while beside them, just beyond sight— a goddess weeps as she washes her hair, and the giant pandas fade into myth. line count: 28 Prompt ▼ Author's Note ▼ |
| the young jumped, vibrating with yipping pleasure that surpassed all magnitude of pleasure I’d ever seen in an animal that someone had come to see them. I was quiet, waiting to see which one would be mine. they were mutts, the grown-ups said. their mother a full bred Golden Retriever, their father mostly a black Labrador, but I didn’t care about that. they were beautiful, with black, shiny coats and wagging tails. there was a little quiet one in the corner that drew my eye, but as I crouched, my hand outstretched, an impatient monster came up to nose my hand, and I knew: that was the one. the grown-ups were hesitant— this one was the biggest and smartest and would grow faster than I could keep up, until, one day, a few years down the road, I would be dragged across gravel, my belly torn and bleeding while an apologetic tongue tried to lick it better, but that was later. now, I gathered the squirming bundle in my arms, and we went home, together. line count: 38 Prompt ▼ |
| my daily habits (I affirm) would make a Chinese grandma squirm— this new Dog year, when I got up to take my shot and fill my cup, I didn’t pause to think: Oh No! this shot’s unlucky— if I go ahead and dose before I eat, this year will fill— more shots I’ll meet! throughout the day, shots numbered five— of insulin to stay alive, and I took each without regret, no hesitation— shots? no sweat. but maybe there is something to this Chinese thing I never knew— this year will end as it begins: it will be filled with insulin. line count: 32 Prompt ▼ |
| her baby— the one who will be born in a month or two, will never know a mother with binocular vision. he will look into his mother’s face and know her left side will not perceive him, by the slight cast that shows where she no longer focuses true. it’s a cautionary tale— like the one about running with scissors or carrying a pencil in the pocket while playing basketball. we call it: go to the doctor with the first taint of infection before the sinus cavity is so full of ickkiness that it detaches a retina. the world is full of things she does— driving, and playing the piano and reading to her children— but there are little things she misses, now. like pouring a glass of milk, right, the first time, or catching some wisp of flying food launched from some future high chair. Prompt for: May 14, 2016 ▼ |
| in our family room, I’m surrounded by memories— things that have remained with me through all our moves. to my right the fireplace, guarded by the tall forms of bookshelves where Dad keeps old textbooks from his childhood— the books I read when the library was days away, and I’d finished the stack I’d gathered the last time. I grew up on heavy solemn tomes which hid such treasures as Ogden Nash and Lewis Carroll— which made me laugh and gather them into myself. on the wall are pictures, paintings, needlework, artwork of all kinds— sunflowers, butterflies, a sampler my mother made for their twentieth anniversary— they’ve had forty, now. Angel’s Landing done in acrylic by my father when he was very young— they went there for their honeymoon. a German house done in oils with white branches reaching up in foreground—my sister. a bowl, etched grey with blue knotwork in relief— a sister’s senior project. two cross-stitch pictures, a grandmother fairy, two children playing on a swing. those are my work— my time and blood lie in those stitches. the piano—Mama’s piano she bought with her lesson money plays Chopin’s nocturnes and Czerny’s exercises, over and over until they are the background music that plays in my head, coloring my memories with my mother’s hands. and when I close my eyes, I can see my family, all of them, gathered in a group, talking, laughing, knitting, reading, writing, being touching me, from the far off place they’ve settled while I stayed close to home. Prompt for: May 13, 2016 ▼ |
| I don’t mind it, most of the time. when they ask me if I would read, proof, turn their words into polish—into truths worthy of A’s from their professors’ pens . . . and then, it’s half past midnight, and someone’s at the door with eight pages. she needs ten. page by page, paragraph by paragraph, sentence by sentence, word by misspelled word, we wrestle this crocodile essay— tame it, pray that it doesn’t drag us down, drown us in a sea of false leads and incoherent ideas. I type. I’m faster, but I can’t write it for her—it’s her grade, her work, her sense of spelling that turns even easy words into a red-lined mess that only experience and her help can clean. it’s almost five when we’re done— ten pages, double spaced full of her ideas, her work, my sweat, my sleep— my incipient migraine as I calm my mind enough to find my bed just in time to get up again. Prompt for: May 12, 2016 ▼ |
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