Crystalized tears form soft
uneven lines around youthful
forgiving skin. Bright veins
turn brittle, trapped beneath
unspoken truths—too many
days passed under harsh
sunlight. Hollow flowery voices
drowned out by chickadee
songs erupt into icy
frozen maps leading lost
souls nowhere. Glowing warmth
melts away glassy biting
shards—pieces of us
grown frigid. Numbed by
quiet moonless nights, we’ve
wilted.
weathered, treasured pages
lit twinkling lights
childhood has stages
measured in Christmas nights
rollicking, frolicking fire
child-led merrymaking
favorite book magnifier
for a mother’s heartbreaking
old family traditions
wee bit oversized
find new conditions
for love to crystalize
sharp scissors snip
trimming the top
recast as partnership
family love doesn’t stop
*Inspired by the family’s favorite Christmas book “Mr. Willowby’s Christmas Tree” and my need to learn flexibility as my son turns 18 this month.
fingers pause over the keys
whispy white clouds drift by
soft green magnolia daydreams
distract away wee wiggly words
woo them back with gifts
of fiery red phoenix feathers
balls of dancing dandelion fluff
twisted ancient oak tree wands
lure them with magician cloaks
flapping on a griffin’s back
whispering old spoonwood spells
in round tortoise-shell glasses
capture them again and again
with bright lotus flower nets
50,000 twirling points of light
trapped in your spun-sugar bowl
*A short poem inspired by the saying “Spoonwood for Perseverance” on the NaNoWriMo winner certificate. Congratulations to everyone who participated this year.
I forgive myself for idealizations of holidays past
For quick crying between wishes
For wiping tears on my pumpkin apron
For missing the harvest moon
For yelling at myself for falling short
For taking too many or not enough pictures
For missing the sweetness of giggly formality
For not savoring the warmth of deep red wine
For demanding you write on the thankful chalkboard tree
For unrealistic expectations and not asking for help
For not seeing paper-thin leaves on the carpet as beautiful
For forgetting the windowsill wishbone
For making cranberry sauce when you just want canned
For not snuggling under warm blankets
For playing martyr music to myself
I am grateful it’s never too late to learn hard lessons
For pretty glass pumpkins bought 20 years ago
For delicious pies from Apple Hill
For crochet leaf coasters and sparkling cider refills
For round crackers and salty meat
For the mystic splendor of deer on the ridge
For marching bands and behemoth balloons
For bad jokes and big laughter
For pink cheeks and crackling firelight
For making you write on the thankful chalkboard tree
For the perfect turkey placemats for four
For forgiveness and second chances
For squirrel salt & pepper shakers
For snuggles and holding hands
For midnight sandwiches and full bellies
For every moment we’ve had together
*Thank you for supporting my blog this year. Your kindness keeps me going. May your Thanksgiving, if you celebrate, be worry-free and wonderful.
Long before the first whiff of candy canes rise
A bauble-covered evergreen, enormous in size
Arrives in the mall for all the holiday-hooked
While fat turkey waits to be basted and cooked
Sitting center stage on a velvet couch of green
Glad tidings brought forth before casserole of bean
Dear Father Christmas, old Santa Claus himself
Precedes eggnog, gingerbread, or elf on the shelf
November’s mall Santa has quite an easy gig
Before shopping gets desperate, pushy, and big
Fur-lined coat, hair of white, smiling with ease
He waves at the shoppers, aiming only to please
So if you like your Saint Nicholas full of glee
Don’t wait until the line snakes around the tree
November’s the time to gather up all the holly
And visit the mall for your dose of the Big Jolly
Crawl out of mismatched blankets to shiver write, heater broken again.
Cracked heels bleed in fuzzy grey socks, add self-care to today’s to-do list.
Must hold breath another week for mental health help, therapists get sick.
Tears fall fast in upstairs bathroom, moms know the art of hidden sadness.
Can’t take another hit, cold sore erupts fat, ugly on bottom lip.
Coffee in my cup is ice already, but what I need is some warmth.
Write, write, write all my crisp inside words, but does anybody want them?
Inspired by Brandon Ellrich, I used the format of the American Sentence this week to explore some of my current feelings. If you are unfamiliar with this poetic form, it was Allen Ginsberg’s effort to make American the haiku. It must be seventeen syllables and it comes from the notion, “poets are people who notice what they notice.” Thank you for reading my first attempt at these.
Blink until focused. Tuck
greying strands back. Don’t
slouch. Press tired fingers firm
upon keys. Sip sugary nectar
ever so slowly. Listen close
to whispery muse. Words
smell tangy. Eat them all.
Day two of NaNoWriMo has me calling all the muses. The time for help is now.
Once upon a time. Nightbirds
forget their songs. Twig fingers
snap. Sunset shadows stretch beyond
the dense thicket. Princess wakes.
Flowing red hair, starry blue
eyes. Gossamer gown and dianthus
lips. Sneaking outside with thin
cobweb slippers and apple cheeks.
Tenebrous clouds tap dance through
black night sky. Faceless wolvie
packs roam the woods. Burrs
grab delicate skin. She runs.
Gloomy twisty forest. An abandoned
garden bed beneath a Linden
tree. She curls inside orange
pumpkin’s sticky pulpy depths.
Empty dark monster hisses, spits
poisonous lies. Heavy razor-clawed
feet press firmly. Her golden
light slowly dims and fades.
Ravens call. Deers rush. Rabbits
thump. Her heart shoots free
flashing bright across the inky
wide open heavens. Fighting spirit.
Bold as sunflowers, lightning bolt
strong. She’s thick roots burrowed
deep. An ocean wave thundering
along sandy shores. Princess survives.
*Dedicated to my strong girl. Keep fighting. I see you.
within this wild cacophony of silence
sit the words we don’t say anymore
scattered wispy threads of dead conversations
tucked into seat cushions and under rugs
watching with its tranquil virescent leaves
serenely placed on a lacy white doily
the tenacious fuzzy buds burst forth
to dance and sway as vermillion dolphins
“look at that,” I half-whisper
glowing screen still cradled in my palm
your tired eyes sweep the room
smiling when you see the fresh blooms
are you remembering roaring ocean waves?
swigging rum under the starry night sky?
black stone beaches, curvy thin roads?
slippery volcano hikes amongst the misty clouds?
I’m too afraid to ask anymore
with the ghosts of words dancing about
so instead I silently smile back
staring at the plant by the window
go where wide oak leaves fall
further than crows doth call
further still behind the wall
where shadows are so very small
you’ll reach a darkened little cove
deep inside an ancient grove
richly scented—cinnamon and clove
where moonlight threads are tightly wove
ignore raven’s sharp cry of nevermore
and search forest’s littered floor
where muted colors dance galore
until you find nature’s hidden door
my dear child, don’t you fear
whispered voices you may hear
or tiny steps coming near
the fabled weefolk will not interfere
don’t be tempted to knock—rat-a-tat-tat
nothing good comes of that
—instead beside the welcome mat
you’ll find the perfect acorn hat
take it darling in your hand
running fast across the land
for now, you fully understand
Autumn’s magic is yours to command
This was inspired by a wonderful morning exploring the woods and collecting acorns with my dearest nephew. I think I’ll always be searching for fairy doors.
Bridgette Tales 