Snow Falls Softly

Snow falls softly, silently

if you aren’t listening.

Quiet yourself to hear its voice,

a soft whisper in the silence

of snow falling, reminding us

to be still, and in our stillness,

our hearts beating, we find ourselves

listening, hearing our own voices.

Christmas Poem, 2017

Christmas arrived, again, amidst political

and social unrest, this season of promises,

of “peace on Earth” and all. And he went once more

to the church, arriving early, away from the small

group gathering, old folks and children, mostly. 

The old church was growing older and shrinking,

despite the preacher’s youth and enthusiasm,

this modern church, upbeat and new, inviting

the children to the front for the Christmas story,

a squirmy bunch of kids too restless for stories,

awaiting Santa or grandma’s arrival, talkative

kids full of misunderstanding and unanswerable questions.

And their parents, too, squirmed in the pews,

all smiles, but anxious to leave, too much to do

to ready themselves for the holiday, here only

because of tradition and their mothers’ insistence;

“but it’s Christmas,” she told them who had given up

“Christmas” years before, lost in their disbelief

of stories told by pastors too enthusiastic, perhaps

even out of touch with the reality of living.

He, too, had been lost many Christmases before,

looking for peace and finding none in a world,

like now, of political and social tension,

in a church that gave no ready answers, shared no peace,

so he left, vowing no return to the dogma

and demands of deacons and deities, ministers

and his parents whose beliefs he could not live,

could not trust, not as simply as they did.

But he missed the Christmas story, a child born

to a virgin birth, shepherds and wise men,

away in a manger among the sheep and donkeys,

joy to the world, and on earth, peace, goodwill.

Unreal as it all seemed, it offered something good;

it offered hope, something beyond the unrest,

beyond his own life, something out there

to believe in amidst the confusion of living.

So he came to church early this Christmas eve,

avoiding the faithful and the faithless,

the children and the grandchildren gathering,

readying themselves, despite too much to do

in this holiday season, too busy perhaps

to remember the stories themselves, the questions

left unanswered, the anticipation of something new.

He came to hear the stories anew, the music,

joy to his world, angels heard on high, sweetly singing

this holy night, this silent night, the stars brightly shining

on a midnight clear, an experience he shared, now,

if only with himself, this reminder of Christmas,

Christmas and the peace implied in its story.

The details may be skewed, not exactly as he recalled them,

this story of joy, of peace, this story of hope,

this precious gift given freely to a broken world

that must fix itself, each man by himself remembering,

just as he has this Christmas Eve returning,

a season of promise and hope,

of Peace on Earth, Goodwill to Men.

A Winter Day’s Delay

There’s always snow to shovel,

to clear or move around, transported

from here by my door to a pile

piled high already, snow-thrown,

and a path from there, plowed

or pitched, carefully cleared,

to my car, “just in case,” an emergency,

or perhaps a planned trip calling me out,

this necessity forcing me from the warmth

and comfort of my hearth and home,

reminding me where I live, the North Country

subject to winter’s snow and cold,
and the beauty of a winter's day.

Show and Tell, First Grade

Show and Tell, First Grade

I brought a book, Pinocchio,

“something you got for Christmas,” the teacher said;

it sat on the show-and-tell table

among the other toys, others’ gifts:

I’ve often wondered what happened to that book;

Just as I’ve often wondered about Pinocchio,

the wooden puppet who wanted so much to be a real boy,

wanted so much to be a real person,

with all that being a real person means,

that he risked it all to make a star-wish come true.

This big world calls us even when the cricket warns to beware but we want it all, for a little while at least, if only to show, to prove, that we are a person, a real person, and not a wooden puppet without any strings—no one controls us!—but we really are just wooden puppets, toys with strings we pull ourselves, for what do we really know anyhow about the world outside the toy shop where we were shaped of soft wood by a caring woodcarver, a toy maker wishing on a star who only wanted us to be real, to be a part of his life, to share himself, his dreams, but who was willing to let us go, encouraged us to go, and was willing to find us and bring us home and let us go again, more cautiously this time, but he did let us go and go we did, a little wiser, but perhaps not much;

Wishes on stars do come true, but not always like we want them to because we are only little wooden puppets brought to life by a blue fairy who let the decision be ours, to remain a wooden puppet with strings or risk it all and be a real person with all that being a real person means.

I sometimes wonder if maybe being a little wooden puppet might not have been the better choice, but like show and tell Christmas gifts, we outgrown that, too, and puppets and children’s books become only objects of wonder in years of being a real person, which may not have been so bad after all; why, even Pinocchio escaped, survived, and got his wish.

What do you give a princess?

We’re an old family, a long lineage

back to England, 1600s, Puritans,

not pilgrims, making our own way

to this new land, escaping, risking

a voyage cramped together in prayer

in a sailing ship, huddled below deck

among the ruffians who didn’t want us,

just our money. But we arrived, survived,

and three brothers became tens of thousands,

hundreds even, generation upon generation

growing larger, populating these United States,

Puritans no more, but Quakers and Baptists,

all religions, or none at all,

doctors and lawyers, farmers and statesmen,

soldiers, craftsmen, artists and entrepreneurs,

rich or poor, educated or not, famous -

a few - or little known, dying and buried

among the unknown citizenry beyond the borders

of a town, city dwellers or rural gatherers,

ordinary folk eking out a living or living

the lap of luxury and all points in-between.

But now, on this tree - so many branches -

we find a princess, marrying the prince,

a distant, a far distant cousin connected

to John, John’s wife, her sister marrying

and we wonder, what do you give a Princess

on her wedding day, for the little place

she holds on our family tree?