White Christmas

Here,

we expect a white Christmas,

with its varying shades of white

and frosted blues and even the ashen shade

of snow heaped high, frozen and tinged with dust

thrown by the wind, dirty with sand

let fly for traction, for gripping the ice,

lest we slip and fall and break, this snow

piled up by plows and snowblowers

or the back-breaking task of shoveling,

cleaning up from last night’s storm

blowing in while we slept, predicted,

yet we doubted that it would really arrive,

- oh, ye of little faith - maybe hoping

it wouldn’t come, unprepared as we are.

But we still expect a white Christmas,

just like the ones we used to know,

one carried in by a cold wind, the treetops

glistening, children listening, and all that.

Growing up and eager with the excitement

of Santa’s sleigh and the reindeer, we

always had a white Christmas, though

whether we realy did or not we can’t prove,

nor care to; we remember it that way - it’s always

been that way - and global warming or not, climate

changes to boot, we expect the snow to fall

despite what the scientists tell us and remain

on the ground throughout the holiday, fa la la la la!

And now, the twelve days behind us, the tree

drooping and out of place, the festivities

over and gone, the toys put away and the task

of post-Christmas ahead, we begin counting the days

till spring, mud-season even, looking ahead for longer

days between sun up and sun down, more light in between

and higher temperatures warming us against the cold,

the green of our lives returning, for we have had

our snow-white Christmas, what we expected,

and that was enough for this year,

here.

A Christmas Poem, 2019

‘Twas the night before Christmas,

and all through the house, the story goes

that I read to my grandchildren at bedtime

this Christmas Eve, a proper story,

not a creature was stirring,

not even a mouse, though it wasn’t true,

as I’d seen one scurry across the room

and under the Christmas tree just

after dinner as we gathered for one present,

our Christmas Eve tradition, one gift

from grandparents, one gift to carry off to bed,

visions of sugarplums no longer dancing

in their heads, nothing to stave off

the excitement of Christmas Eve keeping them awake,

an eagerness we all felt, even the adults among us,

waiting for them to sleep and fulfill our role

as Santa, last minute gifts to wrap, toys to assemble,

packages taken from where we'd hid them and placed

under the tree, cookies to eat and milk to drink,

to finish off the ruse of Santa’s visit,

right down to the sleigh bells ringing

as from the roof signaling his arrival.

And the mouse, no one else saw him, stirred again

in the silence of the room as I sat there

finishing the cookies and milk, and a glass of wine,

Santa that I was, alone now as the others

climbed the stairs to their beds to settle

themselves down for a long winter’s nap,

their soft footfalls above my head,

eager for Santa’s appearance at our home,

dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot.

His tiny gray face poking out

from among the packages stared at me,

wondering himself this holy night, eager, too,

and waiting, his tiny black nose twitching,

some form of rodent communication, communing.

Hey, I said softly so’s not to break the silence

of the room, not to be heard by those asleep,

not a creature was stirring, not even you,

my little mouse friend; what keeps you up

this Christmas Eve, up and about

here among the wrapping paper and satin

bows below these twinkling lights? 

In answer, he scurried from his hiding place

to the little table, where stood a milk-filmed

glass and a plate of cookie crumbs, nibbling, now,

I noticed, the crumbs I’d dropped, perhaps

intentionally, to share with him this Christmas Eve

stirring, stirring myself, sleep not easily

coming on this holiday night, the expectation

of the morrow too great to sleep,

the packages torn asunder, the stockings,

once hung by the chimney with care, dumped

onto the floor and rifled through,

and the goose even, stuffed and cooked,

awaiting the carving knife and the company

of potatoes, white and sweet, whipped,

and steamed and boiled peas and beans

and squash, those little onions my mother liked,

and the hot rolls with honey butter melting,

dripping; our appetites sated, our bellies full,

the pies and cakes and cookies would be saved

for later’s coffee, the day winding down,

a meal begun with our hands joined and our heads

bowed in prayer, a blessing for the day

and for the season, for the Christ-child born,

for the peace of this evening now, a stirring mouse

and I, our own anticipation of families joined

around the Christmas tree and the holiday traditions,

another year behind, another year ahead.

So I raised my glass to him, the last gulp of wine

quaffed, and he finishing the last of the crumbs

I’d dropped, to us, my wee friend stirring, 

Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

She Looked in the Mirror

She looked in the mirror and saw nothing

but that same vague, shadowed outline

of a child, far away and veiled, barely perceptible,

an image reflected, as always, staring back

from a distance, some distant place she could

not go, wanting to climb inside the mirror and be safe.

Beating on the glass with naked palms, she shouted

her own name, over and over, “my own fucking

name,” pounding until the glass cracked, smashed, lines

racing out, three jagged lines crisscrossing, cutting herself,

painless after years of scars, sliced to convince

herself she could feel, feel pain, feel anything.

And the face smiled back, recognizing something there,

but the lonely smile quickly turned to tears, seeing

perhaps itself now in its own mirror, barely perceptible,

distant, what she would become, had become;

and she, shouting out her name, saw herself now in that

smiling, tearful face behind the cracked glass reflecting

the young girl she had once been, wanted to be once more.

Legend

The spirits of winter haunting have let loose

themselves today in the winds that blow

and swirl among the trees, driving the snows

before them, these ethereal shells

of weary travels calling out, shrieking, lost once

in a storm such as this, ill-prepared and found

hunched and frozen or denuded in the spring thaw,

stripped bare to bone. These same spirits return

again now to take up their winter journeys,

howling through the trees and the snow,

their tears falling hard and icy, homeward bound

to the warm fires and family they left behind,

a comfort at the end of their days denied them.

Fantasy

When she was little, just a kid

– still is -

she promised to marry me

in a castle, with a ballroom,

dancing together in a princess

dress of satin and lace, pale blue,

a Cinderella fantasy in sneakers, dreaming

of fancy balls and happily-ever-after;

... and every day now I wait outside

the castle gate for her to return

into this dream of my own making,

just to see her happily-ever-after again.

Cafe Creme

- or your favorite coffee shop, wherever it is -

It’s noisy here,

the sound of intermixed conversations

overheard mingled with laughter and giggles

at something I didn’t hear, didn’t catch,

and the scrape of a chair or the shutting

of the door letting in the cold, the stomping

of feet pounding off the snow carried in

by the very soles on our shoes, heavy boots,

whatever’s fashionable, attractive – and warm –

or lightweight summer-wear defying

the season, addressing our hardiness, here,

and the buzz from somewhere above us,

electric lights or the sounds of busy-ness

filtering down through the ceiling, up from the floor,

or behind the counter where we ordered our drinks,

this constant din we accept, barely aware it’s there,

just the noise of this place that touches our palettes,

even as we sip our lattes and tea, home-baked

goods sweet on our tongues, enjoying the company

of friends and strangers among us, their mingled laughter

and conversation, voices reminding us we are not alone,

humanity in need of others’ company, others’ lives,

and a good cup of coffee, a warm muffin.

Old Friends

(For Vicki, my old friend)

We’ve been friends for fifty years,

more or less, much longer than

we ever thought we’d be alive to tell,

what with the world coming to an end

before we reached our thirties,

pessimists that we were in our boomer years

awaiting the end, nuclear annihilation,

our enemy’s warheads pointed at us,

and ours at them, threatening war

and destruction, fear-mongers, hate-mongers,

a catastrophe ending it all in a world gone mad

- but the world didn’t come to an end,

struggling along, muddling through,

as we all did, perhaps better for the battle,

battle-worn and cynical, changed anyhow,

but hopeful, now, in our old age,

having survived this long and holding

on for that slow slide into senility

and the loneliness of the old folks home –

but, here we are, still together, old

friends weathering the years, the decades

slowing down, holding on and muddling through,

though hopeful, now, less cynical, looking back,

and looking ahead, holding on to the memories

we share, holding on to each other

and the uncertainty of the days ahead.

Untitled Poem

In Fairy Tales, a villain arises,

terrorizing the villages of the kingdom,

those gentle souls too easily

falling prey, a princess usually,

blonde of hair and fair of skin.

The villain is defeated by magic, or trickery,

and the princess is rescued by some handsome

prince we all wish we could be, could become,

one strong and sure enough to defeat

the evil forces that we fear, powerless to overcome,

but we stand tall and firm in our resolve

to save the princess, whom we’ve fallen in love with

by this time, rescuing her and richly rewarded

with her hand to live happily ever after. Then,

in our fantasy so far removed from who we really are,

we attach the reality of today, of our own lives,

the princess but a heavy-set woman nagging us, reminding

us of the princes she could have had, the castles

she didn’t get, her crown now tarnished by time and a parcel

of kids, and the prince himself, that prince becoming

a villain to our fantasy, that prince we didn’t become,

couldn’t become, and the dream, too,

of happily ever after, it never came true;

but what else is there to believe in,

in the final tally, but happily ever after

to save us when the villain arises, terrorizing.

A Confusing Time is Autumn

It’s a confusing time

this time of year, stuck

between the heat of summer sunshine

and winter’s blustery cold,

mourning one and not eager

for the other in the dropping temperatures

of autumn, preparing us, perhaps, gradually,

in small increments, tempering us

for the winter months ahead, the barrenness

of wood and field and ourselves,

the darkness of our seasons going forward.

Today is hot and dry, and I work

up a sweat removing the fallen leaves,

staying ahead of their falling

in the winds of yesterday, but tomorrow

calls for rain and the chill of moisture

lingering, wet and cold and dreary,

snow in the air, predictions of winter.

So we break out the warmer clothes,

the coats and hats and gloves, the sweaters

and sweatshirts with hoods we pull tight

around our faces, shutting out the elements,

second guessing the weather and dressing in layers,

keeping close, though, the layers we remove, hanging on.

And our spirits, too, are caught in-between

the seasons, the layers we carry there preparing us,

too, for slowing down and remembering; for the darkness

and wondering; for the long days spent alone,

restricted and locked inside ourselves,

confronting the darkness, the limits of our lives.

This is a confrontation we’d choose to avoid,

prolong if we could, too afraid of ourselves

laid bare and open in winter’s cold

and darkness, our own heat cooled now

by the season before us, a time of fear

and shutting out, darkness and light.

Back in the Day

Back in the day, so long ago

to be just a memory

of my younger self, carefree

and ignorant, roaming the streets

of the only hometown I knew, but remembering, now,

the acrid smell of recently raked leaves burning,

smoke rising from smoldering piles

carefully guarded by my father and the other

men of the neighborhood, stalwart men

leaning on their rakes, remembering their fathers

and grandfathers, equally stalwart, and watching

the smoke rise, pungent and sharp,

gray wisps rising in this collective burning

on an early evening before dark

and the wind died down, an image I recall

thinking of autumn and my own battle

with the leaves falling, amassing in my yard,

a carpet of faded colors to be cleared.

But today, I’m less stalwart than the men

of my lineage and the laws have changed,

leaves now to be raked and bagged and placed

at the end of the drive for pickup, transported

away, burning and the odor of leaves smoldering

a crime, a criminal offense, too dangerous,

a fire hazard by those less vigilant to watch

and keep guard, too impatient for this autumn chore,

too risky in the slow burn of autumn leaves.

So we take out our rakes and leaf blowers

and contain the leaves in piles on a Saturday

afternoon, corralling the hangers on and the playful

ones escaping to swirl in the corners of the fence

and the children, too, tempted and giving in

to leap laughing into a freshly raked pile,

piled high, scattering our work and piquing our ire,

we who have forgotten the nature of children

and piles of leaves, perhaps ourselves even,

so we rake again and again, still, more piles

to stuff into bags dragged to the street, a Monday

pickup and the smell of diesel idling or roaring

down the street as we head off to work, too busy,

yet remembering “back in the day” and the acrid

smell of smoldering leaves, our fathers leaning

on their rakes, these stalwart men, standing guard,

remembering the autumns of their lives.

An untitled poem

On New Year’s Day we sat

on the beach wrapped in coats

and hats and mittens against

the cold and an icy spray that blew

in from the ocean collapsing dark

and foamy onto the shore, a crescendo’d

roar falling away and repeating itself,

foreshadowing something we didn’t see

as we held hands and stared alone

across the channel to another place

perhaps we each longed to be, looking

back at ourselves and wondering;

but that was so long ago I barely remember.

Autumn Haiku

(1)

Fallen, held fast

in ice like breath exhaled

released from autumn’s fragile grasp.

(2)

Early morning tears

frozen by autumn’s night

gather on the dry leaves.

(3)

Silent mist rising

from an autumn lake, cold

cloaks the distant shore.

(4)

Autumn breeze wafting

spice of cabin smoke, lingering

acrid and welcome.

(5)

Through autumn’s darkness

single leaves fall silently

to settle, a sharp tick.

Autumn Mornings

The floor is cold at camp

these early autumn mornings,

sliding myself out from between the sheets,

warm still by layers of old quilts

piled high, but I force myself out of bed

and quickly into my slippers

to build a fire in the old wood stove,

readying myself to face the seasons ahead.

Trees in Autumn

We are the autumn trees

changing color, green to red

and gold, orange and brown, leaves 

shed from our limbs and stripped bare,

our beauty diminished, to lie dormant,

black on white, deep and dark, stark

till spring’s return, and changed,

beautiful and strong; we are all

like that, each in his own season.

The Path to the Spring House

She got the path to the spring house

cleared after winter had ended

and the snow melted mostly away,

clearing away the autumn debris left

mashed and pressed under a season of ice:

the leaves she hadn’t raked up

before the snow started to fall

and the branches and twigs snapped

and fallen in the winter wind;

she cut the stalks of bordering plants

still standing, topless and un-blossomed,

and swept up now the reddened needles dropped

early that fall from the pine trees’ shedding.

And trimming back the rough edges of grass

from the walk, she revealed to us spring

shooting up in the cracks of the paving stones,

making its way from winter’s cold and our home’s

dry heat to the sunlit rooms of summer,

gauzy curtains blown out in a breeze carrying aloft

the sounds of the lake, the waves’ gentle slap on the shore

and the loons’ call warbling, the song birds’ song

returning, too, reminding us of the years

gone past and the years ahead,

made fresh in the season changing.

Heart, you softy, you sap--you're getting fat

Heart, you softy, you sap—you’re getting fat,

sniffling there in the dark

to hide the tears that well in your eyes,

hiding there on reddened rims

ready to spill over in the next sad

scene of a movie you paid too much to see,

sitting alone there, weeping to yourself

over a lover lost, endangered, needing rescue,

and rescued, lives happily ever after,

as you knew she would, knew they would,

predictable in an animated romance.

It’s a feel-good movie, worth the price

of admission just to sit in the dark and cry

for what happened or didn’t in the movie

of your own life, tears shed and running down

your cheeks, dark rivulets streaking your face,

older now and creased, but feeling young again

and full of the possibilities of what could

have been, might have been in a different movie,

another time, another place, another star-studded feature

flashing before your eyes, that reality here

for a couple of hours, softly crying unseen in the dark.

Page 91

(A poetry exercise taking the first line of a published poem and creating your own poem in 10 minutes, minimally revised)

Small as a fly bump, the little voice

rose up from the tiny bed where she lay,

a night spent at grammy’s house

where grampy lived, too, in his gruffness

and scratchy face when he scooped her up

to his shoulders and whisked her off to bed,

setting her lightly down, like a bird settling

on a limb. And the story was told in a voice

loud, then soft and loud again, his voice

the voice of the animals in her favorite book,

the one she’d brought from home, an old friend.

And her voice rose up where she lay,

a little voice, small as a fly bump,

and her arms encircled his neck as she pulled

him close, gruff and scratchy, the smell

of the forbidden chocolate they had shared between them;

“I love you ... goodnight,” and she lay back down.

Turning off the light and pulling the covers tight,

“I love you, too,” he settled down next to her bed

till the little voice, small as a fly bump,

turned to the gentle snores of childhood.

Spring Cleaning

Spring-cleaning the basement, I found a moving-box,

empty but for a scrap of paper trapped under the fold,

a paper trapped and stuck fast by time.

I almost missed it in my cleaning frenzy,

pitching paper and parcel into the trash bin

brought down from the kitchen for just that purpose,

to rid myself of the stuff collecting in the basement of my life,

stuff taking up space I needed for no other reason

than to fill it up again, a recycling, of sorts.

But here in an otherwise empty box, a box

I wonder why I’d left there empty, I found

a single scrap of paper, faded, yellowed,

barely visible sticking out from under the flap

that had trapped it, forced it flat, held it down,

only a small strip of yellowed paper exerting itself,

making itself known, crying out for rescue.

Reaching in, I pried it loose, careful not to tear it,

as it resisted, unsure as I was of these hands

bent on destructive springtime cleaning,

hands that might easily tear it, trash it,

rip and mangle and pitch it destroyed into the kitchen

bin brought down to rid me of these useless scraps.

It came unstuck, untrapped from the folded cardboard now,

and the writing on it stood out bold, a child’s handwriting,

carefully carved letters and words written in blue,

not the faded blue of a pen, but the brilliant blue

of a blueberry-blue marker, scented, her favorite,

the words still fresh, preserved between the cardboard

folds all these years, saved perhaps for today, cleaning day,

as a rose is pressed between the pages of a book,

all these years since I’d sent her crying to her room

and sent her into the world against me.

Those words in blueberry blue still sting me today

as they’d stung me then: “I’m sorry!”

I was sorry, too, sorry for my anger

at some childish discovery I didn’t want to share,

had not time to share, no patience to share,

but struck out at her, the flat of my palm

on her flesh and the tears and the slamming doors

and this note scrawled in blueberry blue,

a reminder freed now from the folds of a box.

I’d forgotten that note as I’d forgotten our pain,

      her pain at my anger,

      my pain at her forgiveness,

      our pain slipping away,

      preserved in a cardboard box,

      a cardboard box at cleaning time.