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Saturday, June 18, 2011

NEVER A CROSS WORD - PROMPT #8

morning, package, fairy, shopping center, aluminum, pillow,
heretic, pyramid, rebel, door, concierge, pocket, cot

One thing you can say about our genial gardeners here at POETIC BLOOMINGS, is that there is never a cross word between them. Use as many of the words in this crossword grid and write a poem. This week is a challenging change of pace.

Marie's submission:


ASSETS

Once upon a moment,
The moon’s aura rested
At my window,
Leaving silver-plated packages
Of windfall in my name.

I believed that door to be
Slammed.
Sealed at the whim of a heretic.

What then could I do,
But prepare to lay my head
On the pillow-less aluminum cot
Of an uneasy future
Of shopping center pleasantries
And pyramid schemes?

But I have a fairy in my pocket
And a penny rebel’s heart.

Morning broke.
I collected my being.

Concierge?




Walt’s rant:

Another Day in Paradise

Morning is a rebel, fighting the grip
with which night clutches, slipping into its pocket.
An uninvited visitor at the
door by which the heretic had entered.
In the shadows, the concierge rests,
the aluminum fa├žade of the
shopping center becomes his pillow;
the street, his surrogate cot, proffers dreams.
Sugar plum fairy dances by the grace
of the distant pyramid’s gleam.

28 comments:

  1. ESCAPING REALITY

    I am aware of the door closing
    sleep, pulling at my mind
    drool forms, unable to resist my pillow
    morning will come soon enough
    for now
    I will rebel against reason
    allowing my dream fairy
    to take over
    whisking me away
    to a foreign land
    where heretics preach before pyramids
    or a shopping center
    with a pocket full of cash
    or a four-star hotel
    where the concierge hands me a mysterious package
    yes
    sleep overtakes me
    morning will come soon enough
    and I will wake to the reality
    of the aluminum cot
    on which I sleep

    2011-06-19
    P. Wanken

    Thanks for a great prompt, Walt & Marie! :)
    ~Paula

    ReplyDelete
  2. On a cold wintry morning
    a package wrapped in aluminium
    foil from a chichi shopping center
    delivered to me by the concierge
    was left on the pillow of my
    antique cot with a message
    in a bright pink envelope

    "Greetings from Rebel
    your pocket fairy
    Don't let that heretic
    slam the door on us
    Let's climb the pyramid
    to the great Southern land together"

    Rose Black

    ReplyDelete
  3. Like a Heretic

    He greets you at the door
    (like a hotel concierge)
    Dollar signs in blank eyes
    (like a shopping center sign)
    Running relays on each entrant
    (like a social climbing snob)
    Until he spots your money pocket
    (like a package to be opened)
    Becomes a fairy full of kindness
    (like Glenda the Good Witch)
    Passes a silken pillow case
    (like a wedding ring bearer)
    Becomes a rebel if declined
    (like a spoiled rotten kid)
    Directs you to a burning cot
    (like a revengeful nerd)
    Next morning he tries again
    (like an aluminum heretic)

    ReplyDelete
  4. The morning greets me
    like a well trained concierge
    offering a fairy package of
    undiscovered vistas and the cool
    promise giving way to rebel thoughts
    hidden in pillow dreams and I struggle
    to survey my tiny domain finding only
    aluminum pots and disarray and not
    the open door to dreams envisioned
    when the shopping center held out
    its wonders

    Now only the offerings remain
    stripped of their gloss and tossed
    upon the heap of my unfulfilled desires.

    ReplyDelete
  5. A great start on a rather challenging prompt, ladies. I appreciate the effort on some outstanding work. Keep it up! Walt.

    ReplyDelete
  6. SARAH STARTED LATE

    You come to expect your due, or maybe more, a sort of grace
    a mint on the pillow you pay for
    a concierge inside the heavy brass-and-polish door
    a laugh or two in a comedy, even a bad one,
    a drug store near the shopping center.
    That sort of extra in the ordinary of things.
    but you are not Sarah Gatewelder.

    Sarah Gatewelder,
    the heretic daughter of Nathan and Constance,
    was born in September and born after breakfast
    when all ten of her brothers beat out the morning
    and all good Gatewelders are born in the spring.
    And everyone knew she would always be late,
    and Sarah was always too late.

    Ans she knew no matter how early she came
    the job would be taken, the man would be married,
    the dark chocolate cordial cherries would be gone
    leaving only green mint creams with taste bites in them,
    the hotel's last room would be a closet with a cot
    and the scalper's concert ticket would be for a seat
    behind a pole and beside a pyramid of woman
    with lilac aluminum perfume, whose surprisingly hard elbows
    would spread wider as the evening progressed.

    For Sarah it came with the package. Her rebel good fairy
    never dropped by to counter the curse or even apologize.
    There was never forgotten money in a coat pocket,
    only old lint-gray kleenex. Traffic lights always turned red
    when she rushed, and blind dates were over-rated.
    Anyone else would surrender, defeated before the start,
    but anyone else isn't Sarah Gatewelder who started late.

    ReplyDelete
  7. Barbara, I love the story told here. The excellence continues.

    ReplyDelete
  8. Impertinent Request

    Rebel and unmannerly heretic that I am
    I jammed my hand into my jeans pocket
    and asked the concierge for an
    aluminum pillow for my roomie’s cot.

    This is a wish even a fairy godmother
    could not grant, but I insisted it be
    in a package outside our room before morning.
    Who knows what shopping center would have it.

    That was not my problem.

    Sheryl Kay Oder

    ReplyDelete
  9. A REMINDER

    on your pillow
    a goodbye note
    tear-streaked
    by these eyes
    a brevity of words
    to pocket forever

    a reminder
    for this heretic
    who once believed
    love could never die
    this rebel of a man
    sworn to never cross

    the threshold
    of another door
    left ajar by a woman
    coy and enticing
    holding in her dainty palm
    a package of bright tomorrows

    #

    ReplyDelete
  10. Office Junior

    Outside the grey Brent Cross shopping centre
    I dug a hand into my coat pocket
    Knowing that the proceeds from my morning
    Job would finally cover the package
    Saved for me in “housewares” by the back door
    Of John Lewis. I passed through the pillow

    And bedding department, each plumped pillow
    Soft in the fairy lights at the centre
    Of its bed, then through the concierge door
    Back to lay-away. Ten years of pocket
    Money would not have purchased this package.
    But now I had my first job! Each morning

    Shocked from sleep by Noel Edmonds’ morning
    Show on Radio One, I threw pillow
    And cot sheets aside in a great package
    Of heretic dreams and tried to centre
    My loose limbs, stopping only to pocket
    A brace of Twix on the way out the door…

    And thus to work by eight – first in the door
    Brewing tea, ready to bid good morning
    To all the higher-ups, with their pocket
    Silk pyramids and cravats like pillow
    Tassels pulled too far. There in the centre
    Of London, this was a great job package

    For a rebel teen like me – a package
    Tour through business life, a foot in the door,
    An aluminium desk to centre
    My aspirations on. Hah! From morning
    Bell to the stroke of noon, like a pillow-
    Toting pageboy, I covered that pocket

    Of London commerce, a bowl-cut pocket
    Monkey ducking out of sight. Each package
    I dropped, each salacious bite of pillow
    Talk spilled, made me want to run for the door.
    I went to bed dreading each new morning,
    Cursing the system at the job centre.

    Past the pillows, my hand cleared my pocket;
    I could centre my gaze on the package.
    This was my door: I’d quit in the morning!

    ReplyDelete
  11. Michael Grove Said:

    Not a Crossword

    In his pocket was a package
    as he headed out the door
    A heretic and rebel he was not.
    A morning visit from a fairy
    left a pyramid with power
    made of aluminum
    under the pillow on his cot.

    As he raced past the concierge
    toward the shopping center
    the aluminum pyramid package
    from the cot…
    fell out of his pocket
    and underneath a pillow
    by the concierge desk
    and he could find it, Not!

    Frantically he searched half the morning.
    No heretic or rebel helped his cause.
    So out the door toward the shopping center
    he flew anyway.
    That pyramid from the fairy,
    had put his life on pause.

    By Michael Grove

    ReplyDelete
  12. How I Wrote this Poem

    I’m afraid I’m going to be sitting here till morning,
    trying to put a scattering of words in a package called a poem.
    Maybe the good fairy will come tiptoeing between my neurons,
    picking ideas off the shelves like a Christmas shopper
    at a well-stocked shopping center,
    choosing thoughts as light and strong as aluminum
    or soft and comfortable like a quilt and pillow,
    piecing together this and that like a dogmatic heretic,
    stacking metaphors like Egyptians building pyramids,
    willing to rebel against rhyme and reason,
    attentive like a concierge looking for a big tip
    and then the end stands before me like an open door.
    I pocket dreams, fold up my feelings like a camper’s cot,
    and run through.

    ReplyDelete
  13. Black Friday

    The shopping center is
    cluttered and crammed with deals.
    Each package more valuable than the next.
    A TV pyramid just inside the door
    and a fairy tale princess toy
    entice shoppers to camp out
    the night before.
    Roughing the November wind
    with little more than a pillow
    and a folding cot.
    With pockets bulging from spare ads,
    the store attendant acts as concierge,
    welcoming shoppers with his polite grin.
    But once inside aluminum doors,
    forget the polite etiquette.
    Each shopper becomes a rebel
    ready to barge in and liberate
    the limited-time, limited-quantity
    prducts from their cramped shelf prison.
    But I nestle deep in my bed,
    a dream floating through my head.
    I'll be a Black Friday heretic instead.

    ReplyDelete
  14. Shannon - I love your poem. It takes all those crazy words and flows with them so well! Terrific.

    ReplyDelete
  15. Posting another excellent poem by JANE SHLENSKY:

    Cross Purposes

    This morning, in what was once
    the meadow near my home—
    a blessed place of fairy bloom
    and calm pond magic—
    I watched the new shopping center
    going up—all steel, fat beams,
    new worldly pyramids of aluminum shine
    and translucent glass, and stacks
    of power doors, waiting to be locked
    into place and opened wide
    for the patron with a deep pocket,
    that special guest hungry to fill
    an empty space in his soul
    with the enormous package,
    the extravagant purchase
    to quell today’s fears and prove
    that spending is the pillow we hug,
    the cot on which we nap.
    We know we need nothing,
    but we buy anyway, heretic
    to our better selves, consuming
    ourselves with so many goods
    that a concierge must help us
    carry them to our rebel vehicles
    huge and gas-guzzling, in-your-face machines
    designed to be an affront to carbon foot-printing,
    our shiny slice of the pie in the eye of happiness.

    This morning, I closed my eyes to yet another
    parking lot and strip mall and conjured
    a green meadow yellow and lavender with wild
    flowers, buzzing with butterflies and bees,
    deer and rabbits nibbling,
    birds dipping and singing over a calm pond,
    a magic place of fairy bloom,
    and longed to feed my soul...

    ReplyDelete
  16. “Show them what’s behind Door #1”

    A small package of rebellion
    shows up on the steps
    as the brilliant Sun and
    morning dew
    open the shopping center
    of ideas
    which lead away from door #1 --
    another day at the grind.
    Aluminum desks,
    topped with windows,
    programmed to show
    only prescribed content,
    fit for a late spring day
    of heretical thoughts,
    as eyes travel
    and thoughts meander
    like water from spring storms,
    cutting new paths
    in dry dirt.
    Pyramid shaped tracks
    as resistance
    channels
    the stream
    and finds
    me late
    but not sorry.

    ReplyDelete
  17. Thank you, Andrew. It was such a puzzling prompt for me I appreciate the kind words.

    ReplyDelete
  18. ps.
    If Anything Is Lacking, See the Concierge

    loose tooth: string door
    push pull
    push pull
    push pull: rebel yell
    package: pocket
    show tell

    here: tic
    there: toc

    cot:  sleep
    morning: yawn
    pillow: peek
    tooth: gone
    aluminum: fairy gold
    pyramid : dollar fold
    one dollar: ho-hum
    shopping center kid

    ReplyDelete
  19. The Strangeness of June

    Pockets of late March puff balls form on the ground
    Butcher bird chick rebels and throws pillows from her cot at the Bogong moth
    Fairy penguins destroy their eggs
    The aluminium gray Southern Cross
    has become invisible on the horizon

    Dung beetles have infested the shopping centers
    A missing concierge is found in a termite's nest
    Pyramids of morning glory, the heretics of the natural world ,overtake the forest

    Packages of macadamia nuts are found under doors
    The ides of March has lost her way
    Centrefold of the wrong month



    Jack Aranda

    ReplyDelete
  20. Ah, Jack. I do like this strangeness

    ReplyDelete
  21. Why Thankyou Barbruh! I do so like your list poem as well ... in particular the ho-hum laconic response and that cool insouciance that so often characterises your work.

    Jack Aranda

    ReplyDelete
  22. True Grit


    Fine fairy dust, this.
    Stored in ancient
    pyramid, pillow, pocket.
    Revered perhaps by aluminum
    hat wearing heretic
    needless rebel,
    caught in cot sheet
    screen door
    morning gull concierge beak
    bare feet
    soul shopping
    center of the earth.
    This sacred package,
    silken shifting sand,
    shored in my longing hand.

    ReplyDelete
  23. I’m Not a Shopper

    An early morning excursion to the outlet shopping center
    prods me awake. Rising from my metal cot
    and aluminum pillow I ring the concierge.
    The bed will need made and the pillow fluffed,
    I sarcastically quip as I head out the door.

    Room key in pocket, I give my rebel yell and
    escape as light as a fairy from my home away from.
    Even the stodgiest heretic would have to agree,
    no bargain hunting can be worth slumbering
    in that hollow chasm of stagnant air.

    Sun setting, a package pyramid blocking my view,
    I return with swollen feet to my metallic abode.
    Bags and boxes fall to the floor as I, with empty
    pockets, collapse on the miserable berth.
    Remembering once again why I loath shopping trips.

    ~Kelly
    http://livingfourreal.blogspot.com/

    ReplyDelete
  24. Kelly, I love this poem. And you used my aluminum pillow, too! What fun.

    ReplyDelete
  25. ”The Way to the Bounty”

    Rise from the pillow
    And the cot,
    Rebel desire to stay in dreams,
    Refresh by liquid tickles from an
    Aluminum can.
    Concierge pulls from pocket
    A package
    Like a fairy bestowing a gift.
    “Heretic to consider a shopping center…
    Indigenous works of art await!”
    Treasure map to pyramid schemes
    Of artisans procured.
    Morning glories frame the door
    Exited on the way to the bounty.

    Melissa Hager

    ReplyDelete
  26. Finished

    The rain can't reach her here.
    She's sheltered in the shadowed
    recesses of a rank smelling alcove,
    a dreary ravine between two shops
    that she calls home during the months
    that promise warmer weather. Wind flays the
    marble walls of the shopping center,
    paper cups and burger wrappers
    swept up in the gusts that fly
    past her imaginary front door
    with its peep-hole at eye-level.

    She pats her bulging pockets, protected objects
    retrieved here, there and somewhere she can't remember.
    Store receipts, not hers of course, but she likes
    to pretend that she bought something there.
    Aluminium pull-tabs, 8 of them that she wears
    one on each finger as her precious rings;
    she's a fashion rebel she tells a bluebottle
    fly that licks at a sore on her ankle.
    And there's the mutilated fairy doll
    that's missing its head but that doesn't stop it
    from yammering on about nothing all night long.
    And empty disposable lighters in bright primary colours
    reminding her of a rainbow, like the ones
    created by her favourite key chain
    with its dangling crystal pyramid.

    But most valued, most precious, her legal tender,
    her handfuls of half-smoked cigarettes
    rescued from a nearby aluminium pillared ashtray.
    The one topped with a swathe of funereal sand -
    cigarette butts erect in it, tilting,
    bent and subdued under thumb,
    abandoned ghostly headstones.
    Abandoned like she was.
    Abandoned of hope.
    Abandoned of joy.
    Abandoned dreams of a life that included
    children smiling each morning in exchange
    for her hugs and kisses.

    She fingers the short stubs,
    counting and recounting them in case
    one was stolen by that freak of a headless fairy,
    possibly when sleep danced on her pillow
    stealing away her dreams of a fold-away cot
    with a clean pillow in a warm hotel room.

    "Concierge! Give me a light!" she shouts
    at a woman with fiery-red hair. Ignored,
    she launches into a Sunday sermon on the evils
    of shopping on the Lord's Day of Rest
    and calls the woman a flaming heretic.

    She looks away and lets the last cigarette butt
    roll from her finger back into her pocket.
    "21!" she counts, but instantly forgets and so
    resumes recounting them one at a time.
    One hand counts, the other opens her package
    of empties. Time for a drink from the remains
    of the day - a discarded beer can. It's marked
    by its previous owner as finished, the sides
    compressed together and bent into a deep fold,
    but she knows that nothing is ever finished
    until God releases her from this hell.

    ReplyDelete