The Honor Gift

Beth A. Fleisher

Hour 24

Prompt 24:  Write a poem about a gift, real or imagined, fantastical or boring.

 

The Honor Gift

I read the note on the Manila envelope,

Smiling at what he wrote.

Baffled by the thickness of the package,

I carefully opened it — and sighed in awe.

Inside were stacks of his CD’s.

The two we made together,

Some from his early days,

Some new music I hadn’t heard yet.

And at the bottom of all of that,

The book.

I had wanted that book for years,

But other things had been priority.

Now, he had gifted it to me.

Honored me, with all of it.

Perry’s Imaginary Dog

Beth A. Fleisher

Hour 23

Prompt 23:  Write a poem about an imaginary pet or person. The poem can be from your perspective, the perspective of a neutral third party, or from the perspective of the imaginary pet or person themselves.

 

Perry’s Imaginary Dog

 

Perry always was a strange lad,

seeing pictures in clouds,

hearing voices from trees.

So when Perry said he had an

imaginary dog

we snickered behind our hands,

whilst pretending to listen

very intently to his stories.

After all, he was a good lad,

was our Perry.

Not a mean bone in his body,

always helpful to his Mum,

and didn’t he mow Mrs. Gracey’s

yard when Mr. Gracey was ill?

Yes, indeed, he did.

So if he takes comfort from an

imaginary dog,

we, all of us, we’ll let him have

his comfort and not bother him about it.

 

So, that was all well and good, don’t y’know,

‘til that one particular Saturday

when young Perry was helping me put fresh thatch

on the roof of my cottage.

I’d just gone down the ladder and picked up

an armload of thatch, put one foot on the ladder

to head back up,

when Perry yells out, “No, Scotty, No! Stop!”

And my word and williwigs if that

imaginary dog

didn’t run between my feet,

knocking me off balance, so I fell and

dropped the whole lot of thatch on the ground!

thoroughly disgusted, I told young Perry

he’d best be teaching his

imaginary dog

some manners!

 

Hour 22 — Journey to the Light

Beth A. Fleisher

Hour 22

Prompt 22:  Choose an image and write a poem about it.

 

Journey to the Light

I am stuck in the darkness,

But the light is in front of me, I can see it clearly now,

Warm and golden inside the basalt cave,

Beckoning me to come.

The journey has been long and arduous,

And I grow weak from the battle.

I am starving for the light, and I’m almost there.

But the worst rocks block my path now,

Hundreds of them, piled deep across the shoreline,

Treacherous to walk across,

Ready to twist and shift under my feet.

But that is the only path to the light,

So I must travel it.

As I step with determination onto the first boulder,

The light from the basalt cave illuminates

A path across the rocks that could not be seen

From the safety of the shore.

Each step I take, each boulder I conquer,

The light in front of me becomes brighter,

The pathway becomes clearer.

Moving more confidently now,

I find the boulders are anchored in my mind.

One final sprint across the rocks,

And I’m standing at the entrance to the cave.

The light is so intense, it penetrates to the bone,

Melting all the frozen places in an instant.

Light becomes music. I am alive. I am whole.

My mind and my body vibrate with the energy,

Resonate with the frequency.

432 Hz. Perfection in sound and light,

The eternal balance for all things.

Hour 21 — Ode to My Beautiful Bed

Beth A. Fleisher

Hour 21

 

Prompt 21:  Write a poem about what you are longing for most right now.

 

 

Ode to My Beautiful Bed

 

Oh beautiful bed, how I long for you.

Your soft Organic cotton sheets,

Deep pockets fitted to plush mattress,

Cocoon me for sleep.

Two soft pillows

Cradle my head.

A purple velvet throw

In case the night gets cold.

You are everything I long for.

Your sheltering softness

Comforts me through the night.

 

Hour 19 — Many Parts, One Body

Beth A. Fleisher

Hour 19

 

Prompt 19: … or you can write about what it’s like to be one small part of something bigger.

 

 

Many Parts, One Body

 

We humans like to fancy ourselves as independent,

Able to handle our own problems,

Capable of doing good deeds without prompting.

 

When we become a follower of The Way,

However, that independent streak becomes problematic.

We are called by Creator to lay down our independence

and learn to be interdependent on one another.

 

That was the original plan.

That we, though many, would become one body,

one living organism, serving each other

and the greater community around us.

 

That still is the plan. Creator does not have a Plan B.

And neither do we.

Is it hard to change our mindset? Yes.

Do we hate the process it takes to get us there? Yes.

Do our egos get battered when everyone gets credit

for the wonderful event we planned and executed? Oh, yes.

But Creator’s plan is more important

than my bruised ego.

 

 

Hour 18 — Why Is This Night Different From All Other Nights?

Beth A. Fleisher

Hour 18

 

Prompt 18: Write a narrative poem set during a holiday. It could be a poem based on your own lived experience or it could be an imagined event.

 

 

Why Is This Night Different from Every Other Night?

 

All is ready for the Passover feast.

Sparkling glass stemware, gleaming silver utensils,

the menorah with candles ready to light,

a white tablecloth with fine gold embroidery.

In the center of the table, the Seder Plate,

which holds the traditional foods for the Passover ceremony:

a roasted lamb shank bone (or a chicken neck)

karpas (parsley),

chazeret (bitter herbs: Romaine lettuce),

charoset (sweet salad: Apples, nuts, wine, cinnamon)

maror (Bitter herbs: Horseradish),

Salt water,

a roasted egg.

 

Three Matzah wait on a special plate,

each separated by a white napkin,

and covered with another white napkin.

One is eaten with Maror

and one becomes the special dessert.

 

In a Jewish household there is no other night

as special as this night, when the story of

our ancestors’ flight from Egypt is recounted

and acted out in ceremony

to keep the deliverance story alive

for the next generation.

 

Hour 17 — Vinyl Collection

Beth A. Fleisher

Hour 17

 

Prompt 17: Write a poem about a form of technology that is obsolete or is headed that way. The technology could just be referred to in passing, like a telephone booth, or it could be a CD that is the focal point of the poem. The degree of focus on the obsolete technology is up to you.

 

 

Vinyl Collection

 

A turntable and speakers hold a place of honor

In Bob’s living room next to shelves

Filled with his prized vinyl collection.

45’s, 78’s, full-size albums.

Lifetime tunes by Bing Crosby, Elvis,

The Everly Brothers, Santana,

Crosby Stills Nash and Young.

The Blue Danube and White Christmas,

Beethoven and Simon and Garfunkel.

All the greats with their signature sound

Etched on vinyl, played with a needle,

Every part of the cherished entertainment

Now archaic and all but forgotten.

 

Hour 16 — Gentle Hands

Beth A. Fleisher

Hour 16

Prompt 16:  Write a poem about love, without ever using the word love in it.

 

Gentle Hands

 

Gentle hands on baby’s shoulders,

Rubbing circles, giving comfort.

Tender kisses on her forehead,

Whispered words of praise and joy.

 

Caring eyes when she is sick,

Favorite foods prepared with care,

Birthday dress made late at night,

Blackest velvet and white satin.

Hour 15 — Where’s Our Plane?

Beth A. Fleisher

Hour 15

 

Prompt 15:  There are very few poems about air travel, even though there are a lot about driving, train travel, and subway commuting. Your prompt this hour is to write a poem about a plane trip.

 

Where’s Our Plane?

 

I walked out of the airport gate with Mary,

Stepped onto pavement, no ramp,

no boarding tunnel

To take us to the plane.

 

Straight ahead the smallest red-and-white plane

I had ever seen perched on the sidewalk,

tiny door open, rickety-looking metal stairs

the only way in. Or out.

 

Thankful not to have to get on that thing,

I asked Mary,

Where’s our plane?

A frustrated look, and she gently shoved me forward.

 

Oh.My.God! White-knuckled flyer on a big bird,

this toy plane scared me even worse.

Smaller than a school bus, one aisle, 40 seats.

Really? We’re flying in this?

 

I gingerly sat down in the aisle seat on the left,

Mary sat across the aisle, turned on her phone.

Luckily, my seat partner was friendly. But then

the plane started to back up, swing around, and taxi.

 

I braced myself for crashing on the runway

as we picked up speed for lift off —

but she rose cleanly, like a little bird soaring,

no big drama shudder like a big plane’s lift off.

 

Breathing again, I released my death grip

on the seat in front of me, and tried for cool

and nonchalant. It’s okay, my seat mate sympathized,

my little sister gets scared, too. But she’s only six.

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