Skip to main content

Fairytale Games

 Sharing with The Sunday Muse #227


I was sick that week, 
muffled and sore-throated.
We tore those pages 
out of Mom's British magazines 
in a frenzy of making up 
a game of fairy chess:
tile floors full of supermodels,
expensive dogs, perfume bottles,
gardens, and real royalty.
No jumping, no war. 
Just tense tea times,
lost gardens and wise dogs
leading to the Ball.
Would you find your way
with a tux-suited man
or a tartan-collared dog? 
I don't remember the rules,
the music, the endless tissues...
just Mom handing over the scissors
and watching me carve pictures
into fairytale games.

-- Chrissa

Comments

  1. Precious poetry, Chrissa. My sisters and I played paper dolls endlessly, no British mags to clip. Your imagination knows no bounds .. Fairy chess indeed. A fairy tale.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Such a wonderful memory Chrissa! So beautiful it is now a lovely and magical poem. My mother used to make handkerchief dolls. She would draw on the face with pen.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Little kids loved to make things, then imagine what they are. Or vise versa.
    I learned that we should never ask what or who it is, that may give the signal
    that everything needs to be ordered and names.

    ReplyDelete
  4. Wonderful memory Chrissa. We need those so much
    Happy you dropped by my blog today

    Much💛love

    ReplyDelete
  5. Very creative childhood games....they are invaluable !

    ReplyDelete
  6. A lovely memory and a beautifully oblique way øf referring to the prompt/s.

    ReplyDelete
  7. Fun game. I'm still doing it with my collage.

    ReplyDelete
  8. Oh I love this...fairytale chess. Your poem is delightfully visual.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Treacle Season

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #190 ,  hosted this week by Carrie. Keaton was great in that show—the one with wings— Where he was constantly a [man]child on a ledge  dreaming an angel who became a superhero.   She was a sarcastic (fake?) angel—it was the 80s— But always good, on time, her lessons easy, Easy as it would have been for him to fall.   The metaphor so obvious...but I didn't get it. Nor the easy and obvious good. (/s)   I watch the TV movie every other December Remembering believing in easy And crushing on this character, that city...   Angels should be sweet, sarcastic figures, knowing (like nurses and social workers) we prefer Sleeping on the ledge, reckless to call for "heroes." To clear up any confusion:  there is no Michael Keaton movie we watch every holiday season. Although, if there were...I'd probably watch it.  -- Chrissa

Turn Away

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse , for #193. Turn away, like the moon, listening... Listening to the planet that rumbles with a hundred million slaps. All the feet, all the rockets, all the  pistons in the cars on the asphalt over the chasm where the veins run deep, blue in sunlight, black at night. Running over the chasm.  Once or twice they ran to you. Once or twice they ran by. Greetings and salutations. The sky is an entertaining shade of concrete yellow as the rain promised earlier in the week makes good on its arrival. It's a disturbing bright sallow sky, the kind of sky that puts you in mind of old movies and degraded film stock and the pops and crackles incidental to the main story.  Several years ago I made a resolution to journal more and last year I came across a video that suggested I actually re-read those journals, at least those of the previous year, at the beginning of each new year. Technically, I have kept the journal resolution, making daily notes in the margins of

Out of the Den

  For the Sunday Muse, #166. Deep in the rain, stand and drink. Water that rises carries the need, Remember the trail where it sinks; Deep in the rain, stand and drink. There is a rumble outside as I write. Arthur has come to check on me and has curled up beneath the desk--once James settles down, he'll probably find a more comfortable place to snooze or shiver through the rain. I am, this week, angry. You'd think a wolf would be a goad for finding words for it; not yet. I didn't expect to reemerge and be angry. I expected tears, the occasional panic attack, relief. Instead I am furious and couldn't say why.  -- Chrissa