Christmas Eve, 1965 – Hour 10
When I was a little girl, I remember
Looking up into the night sky and
Seeing Santa Claus and his reindeers.
I’m pretty sure it was them.
It may have been a plane,
But one can always hope.
Forest Ranger (prompt: provided words)
Let me be a forest ranger and
I will thread my way like a needle through the woods
in search of the elusive periwinkle plant or
a white-tailed deer.
At break time, I will spread
my cotton blanket across the forest floor and
take off my gumboots and
dine on Swiss cheese on sourdough bread and
drink ice water from a silver canteen.
Being a forest ranger would beat my current job.
I’d sure rather spend time in a cloud than a skyscraper and
I’d rather float in a lake than visit a storefront any day.
So let me be a forest ranger, please?
Lucky Bakery
Mini pound cakes.
That,
We.
All.
Purchases,
It.
Everyday.
For,
6.00.
Down,
In.
A.
Little,
Town.
Right.
Out,
Of Doral.
Simple as confusing
You are beautiful.
Standing lonely in the sky,
In the pebbles of the holy streams,
Against the palisades of adamant,
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.
You are beautiful.
( Source : last line cento from the poems of multiple author, source text : https://docs.google.com/document/d/1YuEZ2gcTQw9SCJr9Gr7TjxA7FfdhXArD1CHJxVvvrVE/edit?usp=drivesdk )
Hour 10 – Pause
Ethereal wisps in the dark sky,
I see several moons gliding by,
My feet stop running
slow down to a jog, a walk – they stop.
I lay my head on the grass,
listening to the trees conduct a symphony.
The world looks dark – a soothing dark
like a warm hug that leaves you breathless.
I am in limbo
a pause, a gorgeous interval
where every breath I take
feels eternal…
Hour 11
Caught up! This is such a fun prompt to do. I’m not sure where I was trying to go so I just ended it somewhere.
Skyscraper, Cloud, Periwinkle, Needle, Spread
I poke finger with my needle
Eyes widening as deep red
Hits periwinkle thread
My stitched cloud soft now harsh
Like the dark skyscraper I stitched already
Taking over the cloth
Dark and intruding on the clouds
That are spread with blood
Grief
Tearstained eyes
don’t cry any more.
Cold numbness sets in,
heavy heart weighs down
a tired aching soul.
Age doesn’t matter;
the burden of sadness
puts more years on
than actual trips around the sun.
One day to the next is
unpredictable,
steady resolve sometimes takes hold,
and others are filled with deep despair.
Time marches on,
making the need to dwell on loss
more of a memory.
But one never completely forgotten.
Hour 10: Matunda ya kwanza (First Fruits)
Seven nights of family and community
Celebrating
Singing
Dancing
Making music
Storytelling
Sharing meals
Nguzo Saba
Seven candles, seven symbols of values,
Reflecting culture, building community
Black for Unity
despite diaspora,
bonded in blood spilled and yet flowing,
washed in the water we crossed
Red for Self-determination
to speak who we are
with pride and dignity
Green for Working together,
taking Responsibility for each other
lifting and holding us as one for all
Red for building and sustaining legacies
empowering us with the will
to remember and make our own
Green for Purpose,
restoring traditions,
accomplishing greatness
never-ending
Red for Creativity,
adorning our world with
sights, sounds, scents, tastes, touches
that we make,
leaving it more beautiful than we received it
Green for Faith,
unspeakable joy,
unshakeable belief
in our righteousness
that our struggles will end in victory
Kwanzaa
The extra A
So they’ll know
It’s aspirational
American made
African inspired
HOUR 12 Exsanguination at the Easel’s Alter
Exsanguination at the Easel’s Alter
Strangely subdued, she surrenders to our intentions,
Minimal restraints required, posed perfectly.
Diabolical benediction spoken from the host’s mouth,
Sarcasm perpetuating through every word.
Outline paint required, torniquet tightened, needle penetrates,
As the needles of his eyes penetrate my inner thoughts.
My deception unveiled.
Crimson fluid pumps into the vial, expecting the dip of my brush.
Meticulously, I produce my art, his gaze burns with each stroke.
Outlining the haughtily submissive angel, I mar the canvas,
The unblemished habit forming within the scene.
Unblemished and innocent, my love letter to him.
A second vial required, coolly I fix her with my stare,
Knowing that her piety will deny me any response,
For she has faith.
Dyer-Bolique’s faith is lacking, but the potent chemistry remains,
Acid and lye, simmering, preparing for a mighty explosion.
Etching the canvas mirrors my etching of her frail skin,
The night drags on.
Her lips click with an arid thirst, but the seal remains closed,
Her hands cross on her trembling lap, the trembling consumes.
A wasted meal, for the mutton is tough, indigestible, noxious,
My antics prove less palatable as he relishes and loathes the test.
A final vial ensures closure, our masterpiece complete,
The Werther to his Goethe, despised for the truths within.
Exsanguinated and at peace, inflamed and charred,
But through the canvas her legacy lives on.
His wrath tears through as we become one,
Uncontrollable,
Unhinged.
I fear that I may win this tournament,
But have a more insidious game at hand.
Gumboots
Gumboots stand alone on the old front porch
A cloud of sourdough dust coating their weathered surface
Periwinkles twinkle from beneath the stairs
Shining like needles of a favored pine tree
They spread across the old front yard
Reaching and stretching to the ancient storefront
The sun’s hot rays beat down on their heads
Rising like skyscraper’s above the ledge
His old gnarled hand hung down where he lay
Cozily content wearing his retirement hat
Still his hand wandered over to lightly stroke
The badge still worn on his Forest Ranger coat