# December Challenge: "Christmas Reservation(s)"



## Chesters Daughter (Dec 1, 2017)

The prompt for this month's challenge, as chosen by Phil Istine is: *Christmas Reservation(s)*

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. *Please note that all entries* *are eligible to receive critique in the voting thread.* 

*The inclusion of explanatory text or links of any kind within an entrant's challenge entry is prohibited and will be immediately removed upon discovery. As always, only one entry per member is permitted.

*As previously announced, anonymous entries have been abolished, therefore, entrants must post their own entries in this thread, or if you desire to protect first rights, please post your entry in the *workshop thread*, and then post a link to it here in the public thread. *Failure to do so runs the risk of your entry being disqualifie**d*, so if you require assistance with the task, please PM *me*, and I will gladly help you.

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


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## aj47 (Dec 1, 2017)

put christ in christmas
with peace pipes not oil pipes
my reservation


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## Chesters Daughter (Dec 2, 2017)

*Yuletide Legacy*

Lanza's luscious voice,
yet to hit a skip,
beckoned me to the parlor.
It was time.
Upon his throne of faded green tweed,
hand cupping a tepid Rheingold,
Daddy began to sing.
Ash from his Raleigh 
snowed down on forest shag 
as he glorified Christmas trees 
drowning tenor with booming bass.

My chubby hands (later slender
as calendar pages turned to dust)
embraced their cue
to unwrap the fabulous four
who wore jingle bell hats
reluctantly gifted by my Cioci.
Two of felt, the others dressed 
in synthetic sparkles, 
three emerald, and one ruby;
the official family jewels.

With one eye squeezed tight,
he would study, then point,
and I obliged him 
until each had a perfect home
nestled in fragrant pine
and glittering lights.

When the next platter descended,
Polish carols blared
with Dad quavering along.
Down the craggy mountain of his face,
the annual snow-melt teemed
for the Mom he lost at eighteen.
Pretending not to see, I would retreat
as he purged grief with salt,
a fourth, lesser known 
gift of the Magi.

Twenty-nine years ago,
his wedding ring
and the elves 
became mine.
Mom handed them over
with jittery fingers 
as she looked heavenward
with eyes rimmed by brick
and declared
"Thy will be done."
not speaking to "Our Father"
but to mine.

I slid on the too big band,
and with no one to point, 
I placed the gems on my own,
transforming my tree 
into a happy girl's memory.

This year, my buckled hand,
adorned by a band that now fits,
did not place my faded friends
(but they're so old and ugly, Maaaa)
upon boughs belonging 
to a stellar generation.
They've a new home
flanking my kitchen clock
on a catty-cornered shelf
where my eyes are most drawn.
Each was given a buss 
before being seated.

They will watch me toil,
and on Christmas Eve attend
a private concert
as I softly sing carols
in a language not my own
with Dad and Babcia hearkening
as seasonal salt cleanses my despair
and restores my brittle backbone

a tradition altered, yet still true,
that grants me the only gift
I've ever really desired.

Thank you, Daddy.

I still miss you everyday,
but that's okay
because I know the passage of each
brings us closer together.
See you soon, Pop.


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## sas (Dec 3, 2017)

*Her Reservation              *

She didn’t get the news at Christmas time, but she could have.
And, why do we use the word “news”, implying fresh and unused,
for everything? “News” sounds nice. Anyway, she chose to wait.
What difference would a few weeks make? Just days, lifted off
an Advent calendar her children rushed to each morning, revealing
a secret under a flap; or a message; or a candy! Even she could hardly
wait for the next day. Christmas is much about the counting, the waiting. 

3 months left to live
less than 100 days more
rebirth in spring’s earth

 .


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## Darkkin (Dec 3, 2017)

*Tchaikovsky's Cygnet*

Tchaikovsky’s Cygnet


Tchaikovsky’s cygnet fluttered, faltered—unable to fly.
Landing in a heap, crushed.  The covert tutu crumpled.
Tchaikovsky’s cygnet downed—the battle: Do not cry.

A dance upon eggshells, so brittle and light, each motion
a monstrous, delicate fight for height, toes poised to soar—
rising above the others so tall to see the stars, the ocean.

As she crashed down, shells scattered, laughter all around,
dust staining the tulle of her netted feathery fluff—Her lip,
trembling, she bit.  Egg on her face, she made not a sound.

Head high, she rose, simply turned round and walked away.
Snow boots clunking into the dark, she went galumphing—
Her feet knew the way as twilight turned the sky flinty grey.

Through a coppice, pocked by fading colour and rich decay,
lay the path.  A muddy ribbon she had found in the spring—
now in the amethyst haze her knowing feet found the way.

To them: the wind, dark and biting cold she paid little heed,
even as Mistral yanked a lock of hair roughly from her knot.
Hers was a fool’s errand, but so too a quest of critical need.

At the foot of her path, the dirt frozen hard, stood the pond,
a lonely shore ringed in willow and oak, now stripped bare,
while its gunmetal waters were smooth, a glassy ice bond.

Smoother than the boards, delicate as the eggshell veneer,
this was a test of faith.  A fool, she, Tchaikovsky’s cygnet
as she shed her coat and boots, praying no one was near.

The waltz of Tchaikovsky’s flowers in her ears roaring.
Swathed, a sweater of faded grey cotton, woolen mittens,
tights and fluffed tulle, she went into the dance soaring.

Flying as the snow began to swirl; glory, grey and pearl.
Tchaikovsky’s cygnet, ungainly in the flock, now alone,
just the music, the dark, trusting each step, each whirl.

Spiralling flowers waltz, a cygnet twirling in the snow.
There in the cobalt gloam as bitter winds start to blow,
Tchaikovsky’s cygnet flying with only the Fae to know.


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## TuesdayEve (Dec 3, 2017)

Share the Day

Christmas Day, presents and food, 
laughter, footballs’ jolly mood 
Peace reign o’er the roads today
visitors, family, friends will stay
to share a meal a story or two

Uncle Bobs’ lips and Super Glue
Remember Aunt Jessies’ first time ‘round 
roasted the turkey up side down

Kitchen gaggles, yak, yak, yak
rehearse the dance front to back
cigar smoke layer divides the room
kids upstairs past afternoon 
instruction manuals can’t explain
new ways found to play new games

All is well, days end falls near
smiles and kisses, hugs so dear
holiday fest, winters’ ball
warm wishes, glad tidings
reserved for all


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## Pete_C (Dec 4, 2017)

*Goodwill to all men (Language warning)*

The vagrants and dossers have been bathed and shaved,
their hair has been combed and their souls have been saved;
we’re gifting them socks for their dirty old feet,
and we’ll feel very smug once they’re back on the street.

The children are safe from abuse and neglect
and now pay their elders a great deal of respect.
There’s no talk of obesity, none anorexic,
We even write cards to those who are dyslexic.

The rich take the poor out for a slap-up lunch,
The beaten housewives get a day with no punch!
The graveyard is silent ‘cause no one is dying
And it’s just Christmas films that get people crying.

Homophobes spend a day with their feminine side
and paedos postpone looking for a child bride.
The Colonel’s fast food really is finger licking
and just for one day it is made out of chicken!

Religions are neutral, they let people choose
and your liver grows stronger with each glass of booze.
The Indians are best friends with the Pakistanis,
smiling at each other across shared biryanis.

It’s a time for goodwill, a moment of peace
and across this planet we’ll devour our feasts.
It’s about all the people, not Santa and elves,
but once it is over you can go fuck yourselves.


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## Pelwrath (Dec 9, 2017)

*A Personal Christmas

*Sorry mom, another Christmas almost gone.
Another year that just dragged on.
"Gavin", in his mom’s voice he heard.
How can this be, it’s so absurd.

Gavin scanned his man cave quick,
Sapphire lava lamps on the shelf, but
Purple People Eater doll next to him, dressed as an elf.
"What the hell is going on," he said with trepidation.

"Be careful, son. It’s Christmas Eve, this is no aberration.
Where are your sisters on this yule tide eve?"
"At dad’s having a good time, in case you didn’t perceive.
Because I didn’t mourn hard or enough."

"I was there, Gavin, in case you don’t remember.
and I saw through your bluff.
Now, have a merry Christmas and open the door."
There were dad and sisters, I almost swore.


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## andrewclunn (Dec 10, 2017)

*Elf 472*

See embedded image:


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## nelen (Dec 11, 2017)

*SECRET CHRISTMAS*

The light from the open door, sparkled the snow,
as I stepped into the cold, silver shine of the moon;
which illuminated  the furrowed  field and twiggy trees.
It was Christmas Eve.
A night of enchantment and events long forgotten.
The air was quivering with the busy buzz of expectancy,
surrounding me with a warm content.

The church lights glowed bronze in the gloom
and the faint singing of carols crept over the hill;
tugging at my psyche with a primitive yearning,
evoking an age old belonging to the Tribe.

Venus blazed overhead in solitary  splendour
and I  pondered anew, the birth of the Christ Child.
I thrilled with the wonder of my Secret Christmas,
and filled with gratitude and joy, I went back indoors.
I drank to Venus and the Christ Child,
and settled into a dream blessed sleep.,



nelen


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## Phil Istine (Dec 15, 2017)

*Christmas Present*


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## jenthepen (Dec 15, 2017)

*Second Thoughts*

 Entitlement and expectation,
 contamination of festive cheer!
A reservation of half the cash,
 to splash out on more needy folk,  
 might soak up guilt and stoke the bank  
 of goodly deeds that I have done…


 ...but then, I’ve little more than they  
 and there are those with much more pay,
 whose partying would suffer less
 by handing over hard-earned cash.
 I’ll gladly donate more next year
 but now I need to order beer.


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## Firemajic (Dec 15, 2017)

*Give Me This Wish, I wish Tonight*

*Cheap cardboard angel
blind eyes and dirty wings
impaled on top of the Christmas tree
oblivious to ravished wrapping paper
spangled bows and ribbons 
crushed boxes and cheap toys

Under my red blanket
I am invisible 
hidden from lascivious eyes
protected from predatory stares
that stab me in the back
exposing the knobs of my spine
like a broken string of pearls


Curled under my blanket
I pretend I am a Christmas angel
made of cardboard that does not bruise
safe in the sanctuary of the tree
hidden in the dark boughs 

Blind me to the eyes
that rape me
protect me from dirty fingers
that probe my innocent vulnerability 
leaving filthy prints on my thighs 

Cowering under my red blanket
with shattered spine
and eyes that weep dirty pearls
I wish I was that angel
*


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## ned (Dec 15, 2017)

*Nativity*

.
And did we cross
that eternal rift with his gift
of presence

for what was lost
in all our innocence?

Lain amongst the fodder
the harbinger of love

reaches above
to grasp his mother's
ringless finger.


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## Chesters Daughter (Dec 15, 2017)

This challenge is now closed.


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