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Monthly Archives: December 2009

“December 25, 1969”

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This poem was written in response to prompt #105 on ReadWritePoem: use any or all of some supplied prompt words. The prompt word used below is moved.

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,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,DECEMBER 25, 1969
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,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,That evening my sisters were still playing out
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,their storybook — go nestle, stay snug in your beds —
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,but in nightgown and slippers I crouched at the top
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,of the stairs, listening to my parents below,
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,wishing I could taste my father’s Thunderbird wine
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,and wear sheer stockings like my mother.
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,I imagined that they talked about more than
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,sugarplums, told tales about the dangerous lives
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,of next-door neighbors — how they fought and why
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,they failed to hide it — stories more grown-up than
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,the plastic record player left for me that morning,
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,so much smaller than what I had asked for.
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,I could barely hear their voices so I moved
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,down step-by-step, still hidden by the wall,
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,and then I caught the few words that
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,whisked me like a driverless sleigh toward
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,the land I would have to grow up in, with gifts
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,of disappointment arriving oftenDon’t you think
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,she’s getting too big to still believe in Santa?
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,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,by Therese L. Broderick
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,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,(A writer’s statement appears as the first comment.)
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“Coming”

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This poem was written in response to prompt #104 on ReadWritePoem: write a non-trite poem about sex. My writer’s statement about this poem appears as the first comment. I have my husband’s consent to publish this poem.

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,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,COMING

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,There in the pines a lady cardinal — will she come
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,to our feeder in the new snow? will he come,
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,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,her mate spread wide above her, red as the rake
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,my husband still keeps at our door (leaves come
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,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,shivering down here even in late November).
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,I half wonder, how much longer can we come
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,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,to slow hours such as this one, bird bellies
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,warming soft or hardwoods — easily come
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,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,to couple with their beak-cries? Some safflower
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,must go to waste, to dark. Colder needs come.
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,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,Old age comes: deepening sleep, faint silhouettes
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,of hunger and red, song and seed. Of coming.

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,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,by Therese L. Broderick

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