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About This Author
A changeling spirit,
constantly evolving,
revolving around an inner core,
spinning forth legend and lore,
stories and lives
as I come to grips
with who and what I am,
have been and may be.
I am a phoenix:
rising ever above and beyond!
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Wrapping Our Home for Christmas Prompt for: November 25, 2018 (Ren)
Subject or Theme: Holiday Decorating - a source of joy or agony?
Word(s) to Include: 5 decorative items (e.g. wreaths, lights, Santa), appoint, red, green, glitter (or any derivatives of these words)
Forbidden Word(s): decorate, decorations, box, hang/ (or any derivatives of these words)
Additional Parameters: Must be a minimum of 125 words (please include word count at bottom of poem)
Remember, do not use forbidden words ANYWHERE, including title or the brief description.
Like a scrapbook
or photo album,
our tree is a yearly appointment
with memories past.
As each ornament is carefully positioned,
memories surface
as to the who, the what, the when.
Styrofoam snowman drummer boy,
now over fifty years old.
Always first,
dead-center of the tree.
His felt is time worn, his glitter dulled.
Yet the occasion of my husband
receiving his Ludwigs drumset still resonates.
Glass ship, sails catching the wind.
It should have shattered
many times over the years. Indestructable
apparently. It is
Old Ironsides after all.
Red and green elf
(more strofoam) loses his head
at least once per Christmas.
My grandmother, Annie
brought him from Ireland in 1923.
He always perches on a high branch;
watches over us
even as my grandmother still does.
German Saint Nichlas traveled
from Germany in 1887 wrapped
in my other grandmother's wedding veil.
He originated with her
great great grandfather.
Wooden horse carved by my dad,
worn smooth ever the years and tears.
Each branch holds a recollection.
Nestled under lowest branches
one hundred and seventy-some-odd year old
manger wraps round the Holy Family.
The camel has a missing leg,
the second Wiseman has lost his staff.
The angel has a broken wing;
it matters not for still, she flies.
Ensconsed in nearby ladderback chair,
our snowman sits, legs crossed
holding a stuffed toy Bichon in his lap.
One shelf in he bookcase
nudges
one to curl up by the fire
and read old favorites once again.
A Christmas Carol, The Cat in the Manger,
The Nurenberg Stove, The Night Before Christmas
all will be read this season. Tradition.
Pine boughs in every room
spread scented memories -- once was
my grandmother and I
gathering them on our mountain;
now grandchildren and I
glean from the backyard.
In time-tarnished brass candlestick,
on the dining room table,
the Christmas Candle waits.
Lit for a minute every year,
it blesses our family
before dinner on Christmas Day.
Same candle
my mother, my grandmother and her mother lit
every year. There is still
about three inches of candle left.
These and many, many more moments
collected and gifted over generations.
A litany of memories, lovingly recounted.
Ghosts gather; the room warms.
368 words |
© Copyright 2018 Fyn (fyndorian at Writing.Com).
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