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.
Midnight whispers wake us, voices we know Call, calling out from generations long ago Begging us to climb vine-covered walls Where shadows hide and moonlight falls To secret gardens where nightmares grow
Hands clasped together—our protective shield Quick, quickly we cross the vast muddy field Through scrawny, tawny bramble copse Where starlight magic jumps and chops Past broken mushrooms laying half-healed
There we hear the night’s beating heart Thump, thumping loudly as if tearing apart Stumble, trip through twisty almost-road Past two-headed raven and three-footed toad Where ghost flowers’ bold eyes flit and dart
Luckily these sickly pink flowers can’t shout Roar, roaring for backup from monsters about Instead slowly blinking they don’t look away Following our movements with nothing to say Until dark gloomy clouds turn the light out
Panicked we run despite no guiding star Trip, tripping on half-rotted logs where they are Fingers slip, paths divide—until it’s only me Standing beneath an unwavering willow tree Hoping nothing near has the power to mar
The drowsy pink sun eventually rises all sad Cry, crying for you—my sweet-hearted lad Lost in the wood where the early bird sings Days, weeks, and months we look for your things Until winter wipes clear all the traces we had
This week’s poem follows the format of Robert Frost’s “Ghost House” using the same rhyming structure and ending words. The painting was found at Goodwill and my teenage daughter added the eyes and other pen details.
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.
sometimes I wander in circles my eyes tracking the empty black sky, looking and looking for your white glowing face etched by night’s ancient magic —are you even really there?
whipping backward into myself there’s nothing and nobody to blame as these too empty white walls keep screaming your name so loud it vibrates every swollen trapped cell
moon— twisted hour hand turns slowly south
when you see my eyes staring at your lunar ones be not afraid you did anything wrong, for I’m simply searching for cosmic answers —can dark transform into light?
drawing with chalk along sidewalks, chins, knee caps caught in seclusion’s trap winding around and around my neck until breath stutters while tiny hairs dance along wobbly legs
isolation— you stopped time I started it
blue, green twisting, and wild maybe you, moon man, can turn madness and untethered chaos into an endless bright sea —do dark craters harbor truth?
dreams used to contain promises of another tomorrow and another, but suffocation robs rainbows their colorful transformative effect until diving underground to cool tunnels relief comes as sound without him here to dance
*Last weekend I saw the new film “Moonage Daydream.” This poem is my response and tribute to my favorite artist of all time and creative muse, David Bowie. The artwork was created by me.
as a tiny girl, I’d stare at the pretty bottle on grandma’s cherrywood dressing table while she covered my head in foam curlers so I’d look good for the Lord on Sundays
when she wasn’t looking I’d run pudgy fingers along its sleek pink sides before silently tugging at the curved pearl top hoping for a peek at its magical elixir
it never gave away its secrets though and as I grew up and moved far away thoughts of it faded like my imaginary friend—lost in the realm of make-believe
grandma died on a Tuesday in October while I knelt in the pumpkin patch pulling weeds, but it wasn’t until mid-November the small box arrived covered in stamps
wrapped in several layers of colorful silk with a scrawled note from grandma saying “this is for you” was her pretty pink bottle smelling faintly like rosemary and mint
tenderly I stroke it with tears in my eyes thinking of kneeled prayers and organ music before curiosity takes hold and using a knife from the kitchen, I pry open the sealed top
he springs forth with mystical blue smoke singing foreign words with a husky bass directly addressing the lonely parts locked deep inside my shattered, broken heart
“Kate” he purrs while locking his sapphire eyes on me, crawling naked across freshly washed hardwood floors until his hands grasp mine with a burst of golden sparks
“I’m Katie” I struggle to say through ragged breath “Kate was my grandma”—I don’t say she was a devout Christian who would never keep a naked man of blue smoke in a bottle
pulling himself to his full height he laughs like a thousand brass chimes in the wind like the roaring of the sky before a storm like all the words inside me spoken at once
“Kate was my lover and I her faithful jinn but after two wishes she trapped me within to await the perfect time when I would be free to dance with my love along the foamy sea”
confused by his musical words, I inch back muttering softly “she died” while looking at anything but the fierce intensity of his piercing eyes—”she left the bottle to me”
salty ocean air floats through open windows calling me to run on sandy shores barefooted as waves swell and crash, swell and crash until falling backward I land in his strong blue arms
thick perfumed smoke billows around us folding me into his warm embrace as it always has been and always will be—his sultry soft lips brush my ear whispering “what do you wish?”
Inspired by my grandma Kate and the film “Three Thousand Years of Longing”
Bridgette Tales 