Details |
Rhyme
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I needed a pick-me-up present
But couldn’t rely on an elf,
So I found what I wanted on Etsy
And ordered a gift for myself.
The crafter is stationed in Ireland
So when it was several days late,
I figured that holiday madness
Meant that I should be patient and wait.
Today, though, with patience rewarded,
A package arrived; there were cheers
From my husband, who noticed the dangling
As Guinness pints sway from my ears.
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Free verse
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You sat them on an icy oak table–
the package of my father’s ashes–
like an old-fashioned box cake.
Your dusty, branch-colored fingers
gripped a pile of pearly white paper sheets
with the profiles of people you were to keep
until their relatives were ready
to let God keep them or send them
to the next place they should be.
Then I swore I could see my father’s ashes
throbbing through the box.
I thought he preferred
to be with drunks than with me.
I never got one call from him on a holiday.
I never got to know the strength
of his heart’s soul in a close embrace.
Why should I care about his ashes?
I remember the room space, an opened box
in the evening in a basement.
I remember I sat, stiff as new chopsticks.
My heart was cake, sunken in the center.
My eyes were acorns in a puddle.
Suddenly you said, “You can come back
for them another time if you like,”
and then drew on one of the sheets
the cost for holding remains of
a poor black man you do not know.
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Rhyme
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The yuletide is here, with all its trappings,
And I'll count my blessings to finally see
My favorite package, in all her wrappings ...
You, My Love, 'neath our Christmas tree ...
I'm impatient as kids, goodness knows,
Swooning to savor those holiday sweets,
But Santa has managed with trims and bows
To hide all the best of your tastiest treats ...
I know our last tousle was fits and stalls,
So let's make amends by the fire with care ...
I'll do my darnedest to deck all your halls,
Weaving the garland to streak your hair ...
Oh, how divine, the grabs and grapples,
Our kindled pursuit of a Christmas truce,
Your thighs, firmly shaped for squeezing apples,
But devoted, as I, to that sparkling juice ...
And should we yet dare to imbibe that cider,
Attending our wassails long through the night,
I'm sure that your hearth will be warming wider,
So keeping our passions AND holidays ... bright!
~ 3rd Place ~ in the "Cool Writes And Imagination" Poetry Contest, Kim Rodrigues, Judge & Sponsor.
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Couplet
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It seems not everyone adores
Witty phrasing or metaphors
But this time of year's so dark
I thought I'd fan a yuletide spark
See, it's winter and I'm listless
Still, I'll have a Merry Christmas
As my blues all change their hue
With that holiday treat called YOU
Thus, my spirits shall get a lift
Unwrapping you, my favorite gift
As your pretty bows and stackage
Make a tempting yuletide package
How you'll glow, (and I'll perspire)
While we're roasting 'side the fire
Santa just can't fill your stocking
As you do whene'er we're rocking
How my Christmas spirit grows
When your spicy wassail flows
And the mistletoe's well-traveled
As your wrappings get unraveled
My febrile fantasies are ticking
With that candy cane you're licking
Since you've sent my feelings south
I'll have to taste that sticky mouth
See, the way we paraphrase
Our form of Happy Holidays
Is sure to keep us ever-warming
Even if the winds are storming
And as we're slowing, growing old
We'll find our refuge from the cold
Reliving times that we replay ...
And making Christmas ... every day.
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I do not know?
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No one ever wrote a carol about the moments after...
Faced with a mountain of wrapping
Once so carefully placed on a package
With tape, ribbons, and bows
Now all shreds on the floor
Like dead soldiers strewn across a battlefield
Fat and lethargic from Christmas Eve dinner
Resentments start rolling in like a wayward storm
"They never called to say thank you."
The thoughts fester like flies in the kitchen
Because no one felt like doing the dishes
Last night
Last night?
Too much whiskey
A glass of Pinot Noir
And more whiskey
And wash pieces of pie down with a nice German Riesling
3 glasses
More whiskey
More pie
Reflecting on the moments that brought joy
Children enjoying their toys
"He's young though...one day he'll want more than I can furnish
There will probably be some level of disappointment...Guaranteed"
The bracelet didn't fit the wife
So she will return it
For something completely different
Something I didn't pick
After time and research...thinking,
"This is the gift that will make her smile again."
But all in all
As I struggle to pull myself out
Of this self-made pile of excrement
I realize that I love
I am loved
And all the spirit is killed by the excess of the Holiday
Not the day itself
I find the meaning
Perhaps different from yours
And I smile...saying,
"Merry Christmas."
And I mean it
I really do.
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Bio
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Shame the bright way my parents bestowed Christmas magic
was not equally a part of every child’s memory package.
When grown and living close, Christmas joy remained parent sown.
Such delight seeped into their grandchildren’s holiday tone.
There were many special Mom things, many unique Dad deeds.
We would learn, one less the other lacked Christmas success.
No matter the duration of my earth-time endurance,
Christmas will not come again without heartbreak occurrence.
Was a Christmas day when Dad was gone to hospital lay
as a tragic three days crept up to take him forever away.
For twenty years we have self-persuaded our Christmas’ eggs
to be as delicious as the ones Dad yearly made perfectly cheesy.
On Christmas morn, one of us will sneak-stick a bow upon face
and when noticed all will laugh to feel Daddy’s trace.
Grief does not cease when gifts need mechanical or electronic ability,
no, at those times, our shared mourning cradles stupidity.
Christmas eve drives to tour bright lights, cannot be made right;
no one reports on Santa’s progress as Dad did with perfect stress.
Brother, sister and I need seek some Christmas eve side-by-side time.
We sit with the children we used to be, and all return eagerly
to floor sit again, like back then, by Dad’s candle’s dancing flame,
to visit the sweet Christmas times when Dad’s voice expounded lines
from the bible about Mary, Joseph, the manger and Christ’s birth.
It is a special sibling Daddy Christmas love-glow death cannot fold.
... CayCay Jennings
November 23, 2018
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Details |
Free verse
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Long time Shelton, Washington transplants...
also known as
noteworthy Trader Joe's patrons
bass sic lee did treble themselves
conducting taping jam session
assembling (boxing), compiling,
and hermetically sealing tight as a drum so,
a razor sharp machete blade got dull
trying to open in vain said holiday cheer
of awesome delicious goodies,
(especially the yummy
stuffed vine leaves with rice),
which holiday care package
received without fanfare
for this common man,
whose younger sister
(vibrant as Appalachian Spring),
nevertheless wiser sibling
Shari Harris-Dunning
a whiz (hard) at work
tantalizing, teasing, titillating
as a lead wrapper from home grown
organic foodstuffs, she and her bandmates
helped fit perfectly, meticulously,
and snugly together
analogous to outsize constituent components
of intricate jumbo puzzle pieces
amazingly, mathematically,
and thematically linkedin
bearing gifts subsequently mailed
(courtesy the United States Postal Service)
from Bend, Oregon
to Schwenksville, Pennsylvania.
Lemme amplify how creative, innovative,
and opinionative yours truly (me)
a humble wordsmith,
who exhibits his freestyle trademark
Scottish matted style avante-garde,
one run of the mill (by the Floss) bard
wannabe wants to rave about your card,
he presumes unbridled
posthumous fame will ensue
after his lovely bones disintegrate
courtesy cremation, which cremains
symbolically distributed across
all four points across the globe,
cuz the earth will solely serve him
as eternal terrestrial graveyard
ashes repurposed hard
to believe buzzfeeding, jump/
kick starting seeds of life
and white lily obliterating ill-starred
legacy which afflicted one mortal
named Matthew Scott Harris,
whose chronic assault
with mental health issues
undermined realizing his potential.
Into the void of cosmic oblivion
eventually goeth as masterly cell bait,
the once unique human
(cited above) as (e) scripted inevitable fate
of all creatures great and small
death promises to liberate
uniting one garden variety,
and generic soul
linkedin among Spiritus Mundi
a never ending tête-à-tête.
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Narrative
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It gradually turned chilly between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Although Frosty the Snowman rarely visited our part of Texas, his pal, Jack Frost, surely did. He wafted his way through the drafty house, chased by welcome bursts of heat from the floor furnace—a square metal floor grate that funneled heat from the living room to the rest of the house. Mom and dad called it the ‘register.’ When those chilly days arrived, my brothers and I hustled towards it wrapped in the welcome arms of warmth stretching from the ‘register.’
The holiday season, those frosty weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas, were filled with a host of memorable sights and sounds: smelling the aroma of Mother’s baking emanating from her tiny kitchen; drinking creamy hot cocoa with marshmallows; eating Mother’s gooey cinnamon rolls and savoring the taste; bundling up in my coat before slipping my hands into my fur-lined gloves and walking to the downtown square where Santa always appeared; and inhaling the sweet pine smell of our Christmas tree, to name just a few.
No matter how many years we celebrated, the holiday season was always as fresh and new as the scent radiating from the tree that stood in the corner of our living room. The royally dressed fir beamed like a high school senior just crowned Homecoming Queen. Her dress, a basic forest green, shone with multi-colored jewels and ribbons of tinsel. In her hair, she wore a whispering angel tiara. At her feet, were six ladies-in-waiting, poinsettias dressed in bright red velvet. Here and there in a protected pocket of her branches hung precious ornaments, vintage glass ornaments from my grandparent’s attic. In the quiet of holiday evenings, I often stood before her, enchanted by her royal presence, intoxicated by the swirl of her perfume.
During the holiday season, Mother made what I called ‘her cakes without icing.’ I perched on a stool watching her as she blended together a heavy batter filled with chopped figs, walnuts, pecans, dates, and colorful candied fruit. I listened to Christmas music and patiently waited—the smell of nutmeg, cinnamon, and dark molasses wafting through the air.
Christmas Eve, we delved into our Christmas stockings, plump as Santa himself, with candy canes peeking over the edges. Fudge, cookies, the traditional Christmas orange, tiny trinkets, and surprises spilled out until at the very toe was a special treat—a sparkling silver dollar. Before going to bed, we were each given another treat—a single slice of Mother’s ripened, brandy-soaked fruitcake topped with a generous dollop of thick whipped cream. I always ate my slice slowly, letting the flavors linger in my mouth secretly wishing the holidays would last forever.
Christmas morning my eyes opened to the sound of Mother flipping pancakes on the griddle. Everyone assembled at the table and devoured those pancakes covering them in hot sticky syrup and slathering them in butter. The house was filled with merriment, talking, and laughter. Once our bellies were full, we rushed into the living room and let the wrapping paper fly. We made weak attempts to wait and watch while other family members opened their presents, but as time passed, we lost our self-control.
“Here’s another one for you,” Mother said one Christmas morning, handing me a package. I looked at it, baffled. Having spent so much time examining the presents underneath the tree, I recognized this one. But it hadn’t been mine. It was Mother’s. A new label had been put on it, with my name written in Mother’s handwriting.
“Open it! Let’s see what it is!” Mother exclaimed, a joyful look crossing her face---a look I really didn’t understand.
I ripped off the paper revealing a set of hot hair rollers. I was flabbergasted; for in my 12-year-old world, receiving far outweighed giving. Mother’s selfless act was simply incomprehensible to me. Tears filled my eyes as I recognized how much Mother must love me to give up her Christmas so I could have another present.
Although I remember many of my childhood Christmases, I fondly remember that particular Christmas because it had a tremendous impact on me. I understood for the first time that Mother wasn’t ‘giving up her Christmas.’ Rather, she found greater joy in giving. In so doing, she taught me that giving is truly better than receiving. The true magic of Christmas is in the giving.
under the tree, gifts,
wrapped in love and joyous cheer
Christmas morning thrill
aromas wafting
Christmas feast on the table
hearts and plates full
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