Anonymous May Challenge: "Mom"

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Thread: Anonymous May Challenge: "Mom"

  1. #1

    Anonymous May Challenge: "Mom"

    IMPORTANT NOTICE: We've a new update to the rules. Henceforth, kindly refrain from using the "like" function, or offering critique on any of the entries, UNTIL OUR WINNER IS ANNOUNCED. We are implementing this policy in an effort to protect anonymity as well as to spare our entrants the agony of being unable to respond to any critique they may receive for what could conceivably seem like eons. Thank you in advance for your cooperation.

    As previously announced by Gumby, we've updated the challenge rules. Henceforth, all submissions will be anonymous.

    Please remember that in submitting an entry you are obligated to cast at least one vote in the poll. Failure to do so will result in your entry being disqualified.

    The prompt for this month's anonymous challenge as chosen by moi is: Mom

    You are free to interpret the prompt in any way you wish, though of course, site rules apply. If you are unsure of the challenge rules please read the 'stickies' at the top of the board.

    Your entry must be submitted anonymously and therefore should be PMed to me, Chester's Daughter, so that I may post it for you. Please be sure to indicate in your PM on which board you prefer your work posted, PUBLIC or SECURE. I am responsible for linking all entries posted on the secure board to public board.

    ***VERY IMPORTANT*** Kindly make sure your entry is properly formatted and error free before you PM it to me as you will be unable to edit your work once I have posted it. If your work requires a disclaimer, please inform me in your submission PM.


    Do not post comments in this thread. Any discussion related to the challenge can take place in the Bards' Bistro.

    This challenge will close on the 15th of May at 7pm EST.

  2. #2

  3. #3

    Layers: In the Garden

    Her shins cracked,
    heels crumbled.
    Her hands turned inside out
    unable to cradle my face.

    She fell inside her body.

    Crumbs of bone and scattered ashes
    bury within roots and soil.
    I cannot pluck my mother's face
    from any rose.
    A marble wall wells
    of represented death.
    Posted, machine etched,
    somewhere inside that crowd,
    it's Dorothy.

    Stone garden bench
    grabs the sun,
    reflection and repose.
    It burns my thighs.
    Apathy responds.

    But in my twining dream
    peace caresses guilt.
    She is a world,
    a particle magnified,
    All in all,
    etched by God.

  4. #4

  5. #5

    Upon Argent Eyrie

    High silver-draped ancient crags
    slip down to an ink-nectar sea
    that reaches up with foam-fingers
    toward the peaks at even-tide.

    The sullen hoar-frost hermit moon
    shakes his round curmudgeon head
    and turns away with a silent scowl
    while the frigid but laughing stars
    dare to cajole the falcon-kindred
    nesting secure upon Argent Eyrie.

    Through sleepy-slits, the raptor young
    peer out from within a dream-stupor
    upon a multitude of glittering eyes
    leering down from the night-darkness,
    rodent-spectres come to haunt them
    in their slumbering, or so it seems
    to the little ones who, with bellies full,
    shudder under the privileged warmth
    of maternal-wings, and hidden there
    close tight their bright and tender eyes.

  6. #6

    Reflections of Scissors

    One like the other,
    copies made
    of carbon and time.

    The smile, the eyes,
    hair, heart, and laugh
    all fit, found with phi.

    Yet there is something,
    subtle and small,
    a nuance of newness…

    One not absolutely
    and utterly identical.

    The difference
    rests in the hands.

    One holds string,
    the other, scissors.

    Scissors that have
    cut, clean and true…

    Strings swing, dangle
    a tangle of memory.

    Yet, both still stand tall
    a smile reflected…

    The hardest lesson of all.

  7. #7

  8. #8

    Tissue Paper Tulips

    It wasn't just about the tulips,
    was it, Mom...
    it was about creating a memory
    of us... for me
    there, under the silken sun
    a moment when your smile
    was luminous with love
    a memory to sustain me
    through a barren winter
    where joy and laughter
    was buried with you

    I treasure that vivid snapshot
    the Autumn sun an unexpected gift
    washed us in watercolor gold
    as fragile as an old silk scarf

    We planted tulips in the iridescent afternoon
    you holding the trowel in brown gentle hands
    digging small nests
    where precious bulbs would rest
    I placed them in the still warm earth
    each one a promising future joy and hope
    a Spring promise
    your last gift to me

    Winter is finally gone
    and the tulips are blooming
    delicate blossoms of tissue paper gold

  9. #9


    Chestnut brown eyes,
    wavy hair, mousy smile.
    I crafted you a story
    with all my chewed,
    tiny action figures.

    At the end I told you,
    “When you get better, we’ll play again!”
    I asked, in my squeaky voice,
    “Would you like that?”

    No one ever told me your beautiful light,
    the candle I came home to each day,
    would be snuffed out by the reaper’s scythe.

    Your little boy went off to school,
    crafting tales, poems, dreams-
    because at first,
    it reminded him of you.

    I have another story for you, Mom:

    You, a young immigrant girl from Ireland
    wandered blind with hands outstretched
    until meeting your prince and falling in love.

    You had two caring, healthy children
    living your wholesome, but short life-
    until passing silently into death.

    When everyone cried at your funeral,
    I’m there, as I am now- but a wizard,
    dressing myself entirely in black.
    I cast, with my shaking hands,
    the only spell I could make
    transforming their tears into magic,
    sending you and your adoring family
    heavenward to be happy forever.

    I’ll always remember you.
    Last edited by Chesters Daughter; May 12th, 2019 at 02:49 PM. Reason: Formatting gremlins

  10. #10

    Mom’s Crop

    I found Mom out back,
    resplendent in a battered lawn chair,
    admiring her crop
    of eight yellow inhalers,
    (good God, she's hoarding empties)
    lovingly planted
    in freshly turned soil
    as dark as my dread.
    Orange caps
    resembled warped blooms.

    inhaler number nine
    was loosely held
    in her muck-covered hand,
    her mouth smeared
    with loam lipstick.
    Seemed exertion encouraged
    enough lucidity
    for her to realize
    she needed a puff.

    Sunlight glinted off
    thick glasses
    sadly magnifying clueless eyes
    of brilliant blue
    which had been
    as sharp as a hawk's
    when we’d planted actual vegetables
    two decades before.

    Within three hours,
    a new regime came into power
    lorded over by illustrious
    Dr. Everything Gonnabealright.
    Wearing a smile of cubic zirconia,
    he deftly scribbled a scrip
    with a dainty hand
    as pasty as fresh plaster.
    One tablet b.i.d.,
    with a full glass of water
    if you please.
    Hearty claps upon our backs
    ushered us out the door.

    She never knew
    what the pills were for -
    clarity could not be coaxed
    from vocal chords encased
    in the concrete born of love -

    "Just vitamins.", we told her.

    Her paralyzing dismay
    at a three syllable word
    found on page
    of her dog-eared paperback Webster's
    tethered the truth
    well within a corral of empathy,
    its swinging sign proclaiming
    "Leaky lips need not apply
    nor are welcome."

    Four years later,
    like her mind, her lungs abandoned her;
    I approached the subsurface abode
    which was hers to share with Dad,
    an almost empty vial clutched
    (practically crushed)
    in a clammy claw.

    With my free hand,
    I tossed a perfect pink rose,

    its petals still warm with
    the breath of my final farewell,
    onto ebony soil,
    the sight and scent of which
    brought forth a recollection
    of the plastic garden
    that had heralded
    the beginning of the end.
    My sister wrestled the bottle
    out of my death grip
    "She doesn't need them anymore."

    Most of her traits were buried
    long before her body.
    She passed never remembering
    she had ever forgotten
    and without the stigma
    of a capital “a”
    emblazoned into what remained
    of her brain.

    Our silence had ensured her peace
    and protected what little was left
    of struggling cerebral cells.

    I've never once regretted it.

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