Best Centerpiece Poems
We sat in the fallout
of last year’s gift exchange—
smashed angel centerpiece
taped back together
as good as a rogue bomb
if someone mentioned it.
Our voices dragged
like anchors through an ocean—
low, cold, summoning something
older than Kris Kringle.
I strained to recall
a time when it wasn’t like this.
The kitchen table—
a battleship, whipped tension
and potatoes. Dad’s knife slipped
once, then twice. Mammaw clutched
her rosary, counting sins like beads
of gravy on the drop-cloth. The whiskey
isn’t worth your soul, she whispered.
Our air was burned sugar—
a water pie, depression-era relic
left too long in the oven.
As they say, it’s the ingredients you have
that bake the cake.
Mom whispered, Let’s just get through it.
The corners of her mouth disappeared—
I knew better.
When my sister reached for a biscuit,
I grabbed her wrist—too hard.
Mine, I hissed. The room turned
quiet, the kind of silence snow wears
before an avalanche.
By sunset,
half of us were crying—
over the ruined pie,
or the family tree
we couldn’t stop cutting down.
When I reimagine it—
and I always do—
I don’t erase or the snowfall
or the tension.
Instead, I break the bread
without a flinch,
leave my sister’s wrist unmarked.
Dad’s carving hand steadies,
and in my version,
we get grandma drunk—
the old broad needed to lighten up.
The angel still shatters—
but this time we laugh,
our elbows knocking it over
reaching for seconds.
In the end, we huddle closer,
ash still falling, we celebrate
cold on the other side of the door.
Our hands stay sticky, glue healing
the angel’s cracked wings,
sugar crystallizing our fingerprints—
we press lightly, only to test for doneness,
we are patient,
we watch as snow smothers our wreckage—
call it DNA, an elegy.
Laying my head back, eyes closing,
reminiscing, the years falling away into decades ago
to the 1950s at my grandparents' grand home
for Christmas.
It was a gracious dining room.
Noontime sun streaming in.
Chair rail with deep red wallpaper, white trim.
Decorating the lace clothed "Big Table"
was a tallish 1870s porcelain Meissen fruit centerpiece
with lovers circling the stem.
Even the adults had to look around it.
Grandmother "Lil" and "Mister B"
were at their nouveau best.
All their progeny seated in good form
awaiting the traditional invocation by "Mister B".
Also seated were the ones that were to be
"seen but not heard" at our side table, the "Kids' Table."
Draped card tables for the dozen of us -
me, my brother and sisters and cousins.
Everyone all scrubbed in dresses and ties.
Mine was a clip on.
As expected, a milk glass got tipped. Spilt milk.
Besides that, we kids had great fun and
became friends again as we did each year.
The thing of it was, none of us liked
being at the "Kids' Table."
We felt lesser, unworthy, subtly so.
Even when I was ten, I knew there were
only two ways to get to the big one:
marriage or go in the army.
We all wondered what it was like to be adult.
After all, most of them smoked.
They all had drinks.
The women had figures, swishy swirls.
The men wore suits like they knew how.
At the "Big Table" they all talked like experts
about stuff we didn't understand
and they laughed loudly at Uncle Bob's jokes.
As the years moved on, things would change,
always do.
I saw virtually all my cousins
disassemble their lives too early -
marriages, divorces, addictions, lost jobs, left school -
beleaguered into inevitable submission.
My family miraculously unscathed.
But they're all gone now,
"Big Table" and little table too.
All that's left from the 50s
is my brother, sister and me.
For years, I was at the "Big Table" since my brood and I
took over the Christmas tradition.
The "Big Table" conversation was
superficial and posing was prevalent.
So one year, I put myself at the "Kids' Table." Just for fun.
Yes, milk got tipped.
But oh, the wonderment and hope. A meal that truly was
food for the soul.
Now that I'm old and looking back,
with a quiet smile, mulling it,
I kinda liked the "Kids' Table" better.
Colored pencil illustration by G.Gaul
Collecting shells, I walk along a beach
while carrying a basket in my hand.
I spy a lovely conch with whorls of peach
and reach down to retrieve it from the sand.
I see a cobalt spiraled shell and gasp.
Another beauty for my centerpiece;
I hold the blue of sky within my grasp,
and there is one the ivory of fleece!
I love these pretty flowers from the sea.
Contained within them is the ocean's roar,
and rootless, they can be plucked easily
from where they thrive along the sunny shore!
Unlike my garden's blooms, they do not die,
and blossoming all year, they please my eye.
April 21, 2021 / A recent N/A
for the 'Your 2021 N-A Choice' Poetry Contest
of William Kekaula
A Sonnet On It
It comes and goes on idle vagrant winds
hitching rides in briar like dependence
under pressure its aimless trek will bend
for it is not concerned with making sense.
So does it guard its anonymity
its preference - stay lost amid the stir
sought after for its ambiguity
as evil lout or ever faithful cur.
However, it may change with careful groom
take on an aura larger then its self
become the centerpiece of crowded room
festooned with all the trappings of its wealth.
Coyly fan itself beneath its bonnet
listening as others read its sonnet.
5/18/2016
submitted to – Pen A Sonnet On It – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Janis Thompson
Shocking as it may seem to believe,
I dislike iTunes Christian and gospel genre.
The only explanation I can fathom,
Is that all its songs sound the same to me.
My preference is hip hop and pop,
Lecrae and Andy Mineo are my tops.
I do like Ariana when listening to pop,
Mostly I rock to the Apple’s pop.
I love J. Cole’s “Brackets” so much,
I even wrote about it for my class.
So much truth exposed in the song,
It’s impossible to ignore the message.
My focus effects my reality,
I keep Jesus as my centerpiece.
Without him, a me there wouldn’t be,
Connected like the roots of a tree.
Celebration Contest
Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton
Whisking flakes fluttering as the icicles start to melt
I'll never forget how the accumulation of snow felt
Natural cool air underneath the wearing of gloves
Time for gramma's hot chololate that I've always loved
Equator shifts and brings forth a winter solstice
Roses are almost here and so are my blooming hostas
Set my clock ahead as we all lose an hour of sleep
Picturesque and perfect bouncing into Spring with a leap
Radiant sun peaks through and shines for more hours
Inches of rain showers nourishing my precious flowers
Navy beans, chives and tomatoes grow with fascination
Green peas and peppers growing within my vegetation
From snowmen to butterflies, two mysteries of the natured mother,
and icicles melting into fresh topiary creating a masterpiece,
with day lilies, tulips and daffodils in my garden covered,
I let them grow, then cut them fresh making a splendid centerpiece.
icicles melting
sprinkles of April showers
gorgeous scenery
~Date Written : March 26, 2016~
Oh, Christmas Tree, upon that hill you grew
with others meant to flourish there in view.
Beneath the sky where sunrays blend with blue
and starry nights, as moonbeams shine in lieu-
you now await your Christmastime debut.
So soon, you will be chosen by us, who
will bring you home indoors, and then pursue
to dress you with fine trinkets, tinsel too
make you the centerpiece that brings anew
the spirit that our Christmas days imbue.
Around you, neath your limbs, gifts will accrue
all wrapped, and what's inside, there'll be no clue.
How you are loved for standing- staunch and true-
while lending beauty with your brilliant hue.
But oh, your days will end, as we all knew.
Stripped bare- that time will halt your rendezvous.
You served your purpose- so, what's left to do
but lay you out to rest- dried limbs askew.
In this short life, your promise lived up to
rekindling joy as Christmastime passed through.
Oh, Christmas Tree, your time with us fast flew,
yet, you'll still shine- in thankful thoughts of you.
I tried to read a favorite poem of mine for you.
Your eyes glazed over.
You could have been a lizard on a rock
sunning yourself, entirely unaware
that I felt as though I were there in front of you
reciting my words of such beauty
that an angel could have been
singing them while playing on a harp.
You may have even fallen quite to sleep.
Not once did you look up or glance at me.
You told me later, in fact, you had no use for poetry.
Another time I tried to read a poem to you.
It was a poem meticulously crafted just for you.
I could tell you liked it, for you were its centerpiece.
You pricked up your ears a little bit.
You thanked me, but no sweet words
of great appreciate did you return.
I am a stranger in your world of pure practicality.
Your love for me is steadfast and real; however,
asking if you’d love me if I were not a poet
is like asking a mother if she’d love her baby
if it were not merely there cooing in her lap.
Her innocence was gone
Maturity was her mystique
And she wore it like makeup as in clinique
She smiled and looked through deep eyes
Seeing through the disguise
She was wise
Serious was her demeanor
Compared to a pleasant dream of the dreamer
She sought pure thoughts and a heart that was cleaner than clean
Right and wrong were not important
Truth trumped those nouns
And only truth wore the crown
She listened to words as if she was reading a good book
And if ones words didn’t match their behavior
Then she knew that she was listening to a mind crook
She untangled their words and threw away their hooks
Wisdom and folly are two extremes
Wisdom builds self esteem and folly takes one downstream
One is kind and one is mean
She always walked towards kindness and peace
Those two attributes were her centerpiece
Christmas is a time triumphant.
Of both mistletoe and miracles
Try...warm wishes and wonder!
Especially, holiday hugs.
Children's eyes bright by candlelight.
Laughs over fruitcake and having
fun.
Illuminated icicles from windows
glisten.
Children, our gifts, still sleepless,
await Santa Claus.
So sacred is this season, let us not
forget the reason!
We pass through the wonderful,wintry
wreath on the great door!
Worship and wrapping keep us
wonderfully busy.
Tis a Holiday that is most holy!
Lastly, yummy eggnog and elves.
Please do celebrate, do not hide
but share yourselves.
May faith,friends and family be centerpiece.
As you approach warm homes, dressed so
warmly in fleece!
12/10/2020
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Inside silent museum halls
behind glass they rest.
Fogged by our own breath, they reside--
the things we never said.
The curator preserves the almost-was,
each artifact dusted with the breath
of words we swallowed whole.
Exhibit A: The unsigned love letter,
its ink dissolved to ghostly stains~
the envelope still warm, the words still fresh.
Exhibit B: A child’s unfinished question,
lodged like a fossil in his throat.
Beside it, the father’s reply~
a shadow stretched too late across the floor.
Exhibit C A woman’s rage, polished
to a fine, decorative sheen.
The plaque reads Patience,
though the cracks suggest otherwise.
Exhibit D: The Mirror
Visitors pause, then quickly walk past.
It reflects nothing but the weight
of all the words swallowed whole.
Last, the centerpiece—a hollow bell,
cast from every I’m fine that ever rang
true enough to draw blood.
We pay our fees, we nod, we leave,
carrying relics we’ll never display.
The museum grows, and no one retrieves
what they came there to say.
What reminds me always of my own identity
being born in the Philippines, a poor nation;
faith and history that nurture my thinking,
their colossal meaning shows how I am doing.
Perhaps an upbringing in my own family culture
can add a vital implication in my behavior
yes, it’s pretty evident as I keep going
with my own certainty in language articulation.
Our constant struggles, miseries and beliefs
provide a perspective that comes with faith;
it’s a way to get plunged into the mainstream
that life in the Philippines has shaped my whole being.
Major hurdles as reflected in various situations,
the core truth of being subject to wrestle with life,
along with the fullness of time and the so-called ‘leb’
a challenge, indeed; the incarnation of my interior sense.
It is an awareness that poverty in most parts of the country
makes me realize that something has to be done so far,
it’s a person’s longing to achieve that goal of going elsewhere
like in the States, UK, Australia, Hong Kong or Malaysia.
That quest for greener pastures and other human aspirations
employment takes the centerpiece as a redeeming treasure;
like a “chiaroscuro” in the haven of human acquisition
where hope begets hope and where faith begets faith.
Well, seeing the reality of my own people’s struggles
I cannot help but be responsive to what they long for;;
a call from within drawn across the cry of the poor,
my own people, my sibling souls in the right direction.
I’ve developed that attitude of love and compassion
especially to those who’re eclipsed by epic proportion
in their search for peace, justice and Christian thought
with their roots plunged into the depth where we are.
My pure white pumpkin,
well, maybe more a gourd,
was given to me, free.
Now that, I can afford!
I mustn't waste this gift,
for it came from the heart.
I'll plan it out well,
before I even start.
An eye hole goes here,
then a sinister sneer.
A carved scar or two,
maybe even pointed ears.
No! That's not right.
It seems so common,
for just one night,
to scare some hob-goblins.
Ah, I know just what I'll do,
to enjoy this sweet gift.
Here on the table, it will sit,
to give my centerpiece a lift.
I'll add colorful leaves,
some nuts and twigs.
A few Indian corn.
Now, not too big.
Turn the white pumpkin,
to show its topknot.
Its personality shows,
in its honorary spot.
Through Halloween
and in to November,
this Fall decoration,
I'll always remember.
For the contest; "What No Orange Pumpkin"
sponsored by Carol Brown
I went to a party for lonely hearts,
With friends to celebrate singleness;
The invitation read, cake, chocolate and tarts.
We played games like charades to show our smarts,
Truth and Dare was just full of silliness;
I went to a party for lonely hearts.
We drank pink margaritas and played darts,
Home made decorations showed artfulness;
The invitation read, cake, chocolate and tarts.
The centerpiece was made of fruit parts,
Hanging the red lanterns took adeptness;
I went to a party for lonely hearts.
The party goes to the top of all charts,
Conversations were full of absurbness;
The invitation read, cake, chocolate and tarts.
Memories made, like the most finest arts,
Being with friends was blissfulness;
I went to a party for lonely hearts,
The invitation read, cake, chocolate and tarts.
____________________________
February 14, 2016
Poetry/Villanelle/On Valentines Day
Copyright Protected, ID 756-762-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, Your Valentine Day, 2016
sponsor, Shadow Hamilton
First Place
Tomorrow is for dying
Yesterday was for dreaming and hope
Today is to stop repeating the violence of the past, but
This present hour is to experience beauty and happiness
Appreciating your beauty brings happiness to me
Makes me realize they are you, both inseparable, but
Only one hour of every day, for beauty, love and happiness?
We have no time to waste; the clock is ticking
Love is like trying to describe the drifting snowflakes
Or holding onto the sun’s rays that heat your skin
Love is like autumn’s shade that has smothered the summer colors
Leaving behind only memories to be locked away
I long to dream the dream of a lifetime
With you the centerpiece in my dream
You are the epitome of my love's aspirations
What I live for
Words sometimes belie our intentions, and
desired passions may be thwarted prematurely
by anticipation, but most welcomed
when they are reciprocated
Tomorrow is for dying
Yesterday was for dreaming and hope
Today, to avoid repeating the violence of the past,
This lonely hour is to acknowledge the beauty of the world, to
Love each other and find that elusive happiness
We have no time to waste; the clock is ticking.