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:


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
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.


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 façade 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 thoughts on “NEVER A CROSS WORD – PROMPT #8

  1. ESCAPING REALITYI am aware of the door closingsleep, pulling at my minddrool forms, unable to resist my pillowmorning will come soon enoughfor nowI will rebel against reasonallowing my dream fairyto take overwhisking me awayto a foreign landwhere heretics preach before pyramidsor a shopping centerwith a pocket full of cashor a four-star hotelwhere the concierge hands me a mysterious packageyessleep overtakes memorning will come soon enoughand I will wake to the realityof the aluminum coton which I sleep2011-06-19P. WankenThanks for a great prompt, Walt & Marie! :)~Paula

  2. On a cold wintry morninga package wrapped in aluminiumfoil from a chichi shopping centerdelivered to me by the conciergewas left on the pillow of myantique cot with a messagein a bright pink envelope"Greetings from Rebelyour pocket fairyDon't let that hereticslam the door on usLet's climb the pyramidto the great Southern land together"Rose Black

  3. Like a HereticHe 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)

  4. The morning greets me like a well trained conciergeoffering a fairy package of undiscovered vistas and the coolpromise giving way to rebel thoughtshidden in pillow dreams and I struggleto survey my tiny domain finding onlyaluminum pots and disarray and notthe open door to dreams envisionedwhen the shopping center held outits wonders Now only the offerings remainstripped of their gloss and tossedupon the heap of my unfulfilled desires.

  5. SARAH STARTED LATEYou come to expect your due, or maybe more, a sort of gracea mint on the pillow you pay fora concierge inside the heavy brass-and-polish doora 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 breakfastwhen all ten of her brothers beat out the morningand 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 camethe job would be taken, the man would be married,the dark chocolate cordial cherries would be goneleaving only green mint creams with taste bites in them,the hotel's last room would be a closet with a cotand the scalper's concert ticket would be for a seatbehind a pole and beside a pyramid of womanwith lilac aluminum perfume, whose surprisingly hard elbowswould spread wider as the evening progressed.For Sarah it came with the package. Her rebel good fairynever 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 redwhen 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.

  6. Impertinent RequestRebel and unmannerly heretic that I amI jammed my hand into my jeans pocketand asked the concierge for an aluminum pillow for my roomie’s cot. This is a wish even a fairy godmothercould not grant, but I insisted it bein a package outside our room before morning. Who knows what shopping center would have it. That was not my problem. Sheryl Kay Oder

  7. A REMINDERon your pillowa goodbye notetear-streakedby these eyesa brevity of wordsto pocket forevera reminderfor this hereticwho once believedlove could never diethis rebel of a mansworn to never crossthe thresholdof another door left ajar by a womancoy and enticingholding in her dainty palma package of bright tomorrows #

  8. Office JuniorOutside the grey Brent Cross shopping centreI dug a hand into my coat pocketKnowing that the proceeds from my morningJob would finally cover the packageSaved for me in “housewares” by the back doorOf John Lewis. I passed through the pillowAnd bedding department, each plumped pillowSoft in the fairy lights at the centreOf its bed, then through the concierge doorBack to lay-away. Ten years of pocketMoney would not have purchased this package.But now I had my first job! Each morningShocked from sleep by Noel Edmonds’ morningShow on Radio One, I threw pillowAnd cot sheets aside in a great packageOf heretic dreams and tried to centreMy loose limbs, stopping only to pocketA brace of Twix on the way out the door…And thus to work by eight – first in the doorBrewing tea, ready to bid good morningTo all the higher-ups, with their pocketSilk pyramids and cravats like pillowTassels pulled too far. There in the centreOf London, this was a great job packageFor a rebel teen like me – a packageTour through business life, a foot in the door,An aluminium desk to centreMy aspirations on. Hah! From morningBell to the stroke of noon, like a pillow-Toting pageboy, I covered that pocketOf London commerce, a bowl-cut pocketMonkey ducking out of sight. Each packageI dropped, each salacious bite of pillowTalk 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!

  9. Michael Grove Said:Not a CrosswordIn his pocket was a packageas he headed out the doorA heretic and rebel he was not.A morning visit from a fairyleft a pyramid with powermade of aluminumunder the pillow on his cot.As he raced past the conciergetoward the shopping centerthe aluminum pyramid packagefrom the cot…fell out of his pocketand underneath a pillowby the concierge deskand 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 centerhe flew anyway.That pyramid from the fairy,had put his life on pause.By Michael Grove

  10. How I Wrote this PoemI’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 aluminumor 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 tipand 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.

  11. Black Friday The shopping center is cluttered and crammed with deals.Each package more valuable than the next.A TV pyramid just inside the doorand a fairy tale princess toyentice shoppers to camp out the night before.Roughing the November windwith little more than a pillowand 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 rebelready to barge in and liberate the limited-time, limited-quantityprducts 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.

  12. Posting another excellent poem by JANE SHLENSKY:Cross PurposesThis morning, in what was once the meadow near my home—a blessed place of fairy bloomand 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 lockedinto place and opened wide for the patron with a deep pocket, that special guest hungry to fill an empty space in his soulwith the enormous package, the extravagant purchase to quell today’s fears and provethat 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, consumingourselves with so many goods that a concierge must help us carry them to our rebel vehicles huge and gas-guzzling, in-your-face machinesdesigned 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 anotherparking 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…

  13. “Show them what’s behind Door #1”A small package of rebellionshows up on the stepsas the brilliant Sun and morning dewopen the shopping centerof ideaswhich lead away from door #1 –another day at the grind.Aluminum desks,topped with windows,programmed to showonly prescribed content,fit for a late spring dayof heretical thoughts,as eyes traveland thoughts meanderlike water from spring storms,cutting new pathsin dry dirt.Pyramid shaped tracksas resistancechannelsthe streamand findsme latebut not sorry.

  14. ps.If Anything Is Lacking, See the Conciergeloose tooth: string doorpush pullpush pullpush pull: rebel yellpackage: pocketshow tellhere: ticthere: toccot:  sleepmorning: yawnpillow: peektooth: gonealuminum: fairy goldpyramid : dollar foldone dollar: ho-humshopping center kid

  15. The Strangeness of JunePockets of late March puff balls form on the groundButcher bird chick rebels and throws pillows from her cot at the Bogong mothFairy penguins destroy their eggsThe aluminium gray Southern Crosshas become invisible on the horizonDung beetles have infested the shopping centersA missing concierge is found in a termite's nestPyramids of morning glory, the heretics of the natural world ,overtake the forestPackages of macadamia nuts are found under doorsThe ides of March has lost her wayCentrefold of the wrong monthJack Aranda

  16. 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

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

  18. I’m Not a ShopperAn 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

  19. ”The Way to the Bounty”Rise from the pillowAnd the cot,Rebel desire to stay in dreams,Refresh by liquid tickles from anAluminum can.Concierge pulls from pocketA packageLike a fairy bestowing a gift.“Heretic to consider a shopping center…Indigenous works of art await!”Treasure map to pyramid schemesOf artisans procured.Morning glories frame the doorExited on the way to the bounty.Melissa Hager

  20. FinishedThe rain can't reach her here.She's sheltered in the shadowedrecesses of a rank smelling alcove,a dreary ravine between two shopsthat she calls home during the months that promise warmer weather. Wind flays themarble walls of the shopping center,paper cups and burger wrappersswept up in the gusts that flypast 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 likesto pretend that she bought something there.Aluminium pull-tabs, 8 of them that she wearsone on each finger as her precious rings;she's a fashion rebel she tells a bluebottlefly that licks at a sore on her ankle.And there's the mutilated fairy dollthat'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 coloursreminding her of a rainbow, like the onescreated 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 exchangefor her hugs and kisses. She fingers the short stubs, counting and recounting them in caseone was stolen by that freak of a headless fairy, possibly when sleep danced on her pillowstealing away her dreams of a fold-away cot with a clean pillow in a warm hotel room. "Concierge! Give me a light!" she shoutsat a woman with fiery-red hair. Ignored,she launches into a Sunday sermon on the evilsof shopping on the Lord's Day of Restand 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 soresumes 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.

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