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In response to pensitivity101’s prompt Three Things Challenge #M192 PENALTY AIM INTRICATE

His aim was true his future solid the plan he laid an intricate ballad of love lost and days spent in deep emotional torment

In a short time without much effort he stole her heart giving him comfort She didn’t know she didn’t plan to spend her life without this man

The truth came out painful and bold the ladies heart it grew quite cold He had cursed both of their destinies loneliness their ultimate penalty

In response to Bartholomew Barker’s prompt, “What does the future hold?”

Broken apart now faltering
angst anger regret and pain
A mother and father vow
never to speak again

Houses once homes
sold to provide funds
For out-of-state moves
beer and liquor runs

Electricity falters
smart phones and devices
Become treasured antiques
man left without his vices

Teenagers stay home
to help mom run the farm
Sisters and brothers
work together arm in arm

Through the heavy barn doors
walks a man scarred and torn
Demons and humans he battled
his soul thin and worn

The players are different
in this family once broken
Standing together as one
not society’s meager token

A strong family unit now
forms a community devoted
to save their Mother the Earth
by hard work and clean voting

A baby in a manger
wrapped in thin linen
smiled at the simplicity
of a rhythmic thumping drum

Over his head a stables roof
the songs of barn animals
serenade his first lullaby
a mother and father by his side

It mattered not to the tiny child
that others had much more than he
the healing light within his eyes
would bring joy to all for many years

In this world of violence and crime
where wealth and fame
eclipse love and care
wrap your heart in the barest linen
and remember

Cold wind howls in obscure octaves,
the notes lost among the cacophony.
Obsessed it is, the blustery wind.
Endless search.

Swiping Christmas decorations
from eave and porch, tree and bush,
attempting to hold on to mortality.
Useless endeavor.

Bitter air follows the whipping gusts,
the bite of it coats all it touches
with its frigid tenor, to ice.
Crystal sculptures.

Trees falter, statuesque trunks bend,
and fold beneath the weight and wrath
of Mother Nature’s moodiness.
Angry deity.

In my bed close to the frosty window,
freezing air drifts through warped sills
aged by time and neglect and time.
Endless loop.

Beneath the heavy blankets and quilt,
alone Christmas Eve on this wintry,
wet, windy night before the Miracle;
my pups bound up to sleep beside me.

I am blessed.

Edited by Gabriella Marie

Very honored to announce that some of my poetry has been selected for publication in HIDDEN IN CHILDHOOD: A POETRY ANTHOLOGY Edited by Gabriela Marie Milton to be released late January 2023!!!

By Tomasina Kat (aka Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-Ferris)

In response to Bartholomew Barker’s prompt,
“Why Do Cats Hate Christmas?”

I have been asked it seems,
tasked it seems,
by a poet more learned than
I

To explain why we cats you see,
do not like Christmas
you see,
or really no holidays at all.

First off and number one
on this poem,
Having taken a poll
just for this list.

Is the loss of our favorite spot,
our sacred resting berth.
You push us away blocking the way
to our sunny window sill!

Secondly my dear sweet human,
in my sleeping place you set
A prickly Christmas tree
then forbid a cat from climbing it!

Third and might I say
quite devious of you humans,
You place upon that Christmas tree hundreds of baubling baubles!

They jiggle and sway all of the day
taunting, teasing, torturing,
Our feline kind not to bat,
not to swat, lest we all go blind!

Fourth and this causes a quite a tiff,
you have turkey and ham,
Cornish hens and fried Spam,
but do you deem to share any at all?

Fifth and hear me human’s mine,
this is the most important
Reason why cats truly hate
Christmas after all!

Have you ever seen a little kitty cat,
jump from inside a wrapped
Christmas box,
a gift for that little boy or girl?

No you have not,
puppies galore all over the floor,
But Christmas kittens,
there are not!

The temperatures have dropped today
the Winter air is bitter cold
Hibiscus leaves have curled and dried
only stalks and roots survive
Soon those too will fade away
leaving deep buried roots behind

Gardenia blooms a sweet memory
tucked inside their stems until Spring
Bleeding Hearts and Sunflower discs
lay in wait for the warmth of the sun
To restore their lovely greenery
when Winter’s wrath is done

Wrapped up like Christmas presents
my favored Palm Trees stand
Bound around with burlap bags
protecting their wispy fronds
Feeding their roots with supplements
keeping them healthy and strong

My Cypress tree is truly bald
more naked it could not be
Just beside it’s barren form
two trees of bright evergreen
Underneath their long limbs sprawl
a remembrance of past splendor

The mulch is laid and piled around
the base of each and every bush
Christmas lights will fill the space
now barren of blooms and flowers
My garden sleeps in frozen ground
the silent night’s begin again

I can see you
there beneath the hue
of reflected leaves and trees
water colored silhouettes
rippling on the water below me

You with yours
in your watery world
moving about with fluidic ease
under the eddies and gentle swirls
of your aquatic universe

I see you you there
can you see me here
here by the edge standing alone
my world edged with sharp planes
compact masses of steel for homes

Your world filled with soft grasses
golden sand stretches no barriers
skimming and swimming in perfect
unity you your family your friends
No walls to pen you within

Wind blows and the tide shifts
the current carries you away
to a new and better life
a different adventure every day
Do you see me standing here – still?

In response to Bartholomew Barker’s prompt 15 Minute Gift Ideas For Old Bohemian Poets

First I had to decipher listicle
as in a poem of numbered form
Second I found I was rhyming
listicle with popsicle and then testi….
Better not.

My third thought turned to wine
Something not too expensive
to satisfy the palette of an old
curmudgeon poet just fine
Aged not old.

Fourth I had to review or at least recall
the occasions I’d noticed that poet
in his finite curmudgeonly grace
raise his glass in salute to one and all
With a smile.

Fifth I researched diligently
that worldwide library Google free
to determine what kind and what color
to offer a critic most innocently
Highest alcohol content.

Perplexed at number six with no end
as to when to stop poet-ing a listicle I forgot to buy those red spirits
for my old curmudgeon-like friend
Merry Christmas Anyway
My Curmudgeonly Friend!

A thick voice laced with a good amount of angst and a heavy Cuban accent, echoes from the bathroom at the end of the hall.

“Lucy! Lucy! We are out of toilet paper! Bring me the toilet paper please!” His voice holds a note of urgency.

Lucy looks up from her masterpiece, Ethel takes off, the apartment door slams shut loudly behind her.

“Lucy! Lucy! Are you there?
¡Ay, caramba Lucy!” The voice rises in pitch.

“Um, no, no I’m not!” Lucy stutters.

“What?” The voice asks, the t in the word ‘what’ nearly silent as his frustration mounts.

“Oh! Oh!” The red-headed ball of confusion mutters. “Ok, ok, I’m coming! Keep your pants on!”

“Lucy, what are you saying?
Mama Mia, Mira que tiene cosa!” Unintelligent Spanish verbiage fills the narrow hallway.

“Here you go Ricky! Merry Christmas!” Lucy pushes the entire concoction through the bathroom door.

Ricky, “ Lucy! You’ve got some ‘splainin to do!”