B&P’s Shadorma: “For the Blessed and Those Who Need” #amwriting #poetry #shadorma


Thanks to MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting this B&P’s Shadorma prompt on the holiday season and Dickensian goodwill towards men. 

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Credit: http://www.pinterest.com

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Gathering with, 

Our families a bond, 

There, despite —

The distance. 

Sharing our lives together

Meeting, laughing, joy.

—-

Siblings, 

Connecting; though years —

In childhood, 

Have passed by. 

Fiances, partners, meeting —

New loved ones enfold.

—-

Families, 

They grow and alter. 

Babies too, 

Added and —

Some family sadly they pass, 

Onto their forever home.

And on the —

New Year, we gather, 

Again to —

Ring in a —

Better year, with promise; hope, 

Less pain, more grace known. 

—–

So I pray, 

For all of you, when —

You pour the —

Champagne and —

Kiss your most beloved one, 

Think too, of suffering

Those whose holidays, 

Have less cheer, are hard

Those who fight

Have trials

Those without home, wealth, and —

Know not where food comes.

—–

For those who, 

Are trying to feed, 

Little mouths. 

They go with —

Out; but they need energy,

To work, to provide.

—-

For those who’ve, 

Demons inside, they can’t —

Struggle more, 

And survive.

For those who don’t know there’s hope

Think and aid them all.

—-

Help comes in, 

Many ways; talking, 

Mere words which, 

Keep the edge,

Far away; give friendship, gifts —

Something showing thought. 
—-

You can help, 

Volunteer to kids, 

Charity, 

Read with them. 

You can do many thoughtful

Things; don’t forget.

—-

For those snug, 

At home and gifted to know, 

Warmth and love. 

Abundantly

Blessed; may we keep the —

Season in our hearts. 

—-

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.

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Three Line Tales: A Million Times Better #3LineTales #nonfiction #amwriting 


Thanks to Sony of Only 100 Words, our gracious host of #3LineTales:

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Credit: Jennifer Pallian via UpSplash

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Everyone either loves or hates fruit bread and more often than not, this stiff and solid rock like cake which sits in your stomach as if you’ve ingested a stone, is detested by many people. No matter the tradition or reason we bake/eat fruit bread at Christmas, it is a custom many of us wonder about; I can honestly say, however, there is only one fruit bread in the world I love because it tastes wonderful and is nothing like any fruit bread I’ve ever tasted before, or will ever taste again. 

Grandma’s fruit bread wasn’t like traditional loaves of fruit bread because it was soft and tempting as I believe, any kind of bread should be; inside her bread was sugared and candied fruits much like traditional fruit bread, except my Grandma’s fruit bread was melt in your mouth and we used to toast a small slice or two for breakfast during the holidays and have it with becel; the buttery, sweet, soft bread was delicious and makes me hungry thinking about it; Grandma’s fruit bread was not traditional fruit bread — it was a million times better.

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©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved. 

Poem: A Night at Home


alone girl
http://www.pixhome.blogspot.com
On a lonely Saturday night she sat at home, turning textbook pages. She was supposed to be reading but the words blurred before her.

Like any other night she was at home, no place to go when you have limited energy. No place to go when your friends are coupled up.

The night outside was peaceful, and it was warm for November. When the darkness rolled in, it was fast a midnight sky.

And the stars twinkled down on her, she hadn’t seen them glimmer in ages; she felt as if they knew her secrets, that she longed to be strong again.

But the stars had heard billions of pleas for change and prayer to prevent suffering. They reigned down supreme as many begged to Him ‘on high’ for relief.

The snow lit the ground so it was slightly easier to see. When you drove home it shone, a white neon sign that was to remain until April.

And the houses with their lights off were slightly alarming. The world was out celebrating that the holidays were here. But some people were just stuck, marinating in their chairs.

But not everyone could party on warm nights. Some such as her, had things to do and places to be tomorrow.

But what she wouldn’t trade to be as most everyone, to not have to worry when the clock struck midnight. Not to have to feel a sickening in her stomach.

To not feel a terrible exhaustion hit her and feel herself fading away while the people around her move like puppets, never knowing that for her something isn’t right

The sound becomes to much, her ears are hurting. There are too many people here now. And she runs for the door only to be stopped by a woman she knows little, slurring her words on Bourbon.

Yes, better to stay at home and have a glass of wine. Better to stay at home and ace the exam on Tuesday. Better to be well for tomorrow and do some Christmas browsing. Better to be well.

But she can’t stop from wanting what she knows she can’t have. She prays every night but He ‘on high’ keeps whispering for her to go on, how she is. She’ll be fine.

And for her, that’s not an option. That’s not a choice. That is a sentence given and she lacks the power to change her direction.

Flipping pages is alright some of the time. But some nights are for party dresses, and high heels. Some nights are for music and a fantastic meal.

Some nights are for friends and staying up until dawn. Some nights are for memories that keep carrying you on.

But some nights are for typing and writing a poem. Writing on the screen what she is thinking and wondering if anything will change.

Or if the world will keep on spinning endlessly, ignoring her prayers. But she keeps on writing because it’s an escape from her mind.

Where the wheels are turning and the clock won’t go round, wondering when she can again begin; to begin anew, does that take until New Years?

—–

 

©Mandibelle16. All Rights Reserved.