A Christmas Poem (2021)

A midnight clear in late December, and I couldn’t sleep,

too much anticipation of the holiday ahead, I expect; I’m

not anxious about Christmas coming – with or without me,

it will arrive - maybe just anxious over the holiday itself,

not in the mood even with the carols playing everywhere,

loud in my head in hopes of reviving some Christmas spirit,

the spirit of Christmas past with family gathered at my grandparent’s

farm, even the spirit of Christmas present spent away from family,

almost just another day these latter years, or the spirit of Christmas future,

which is harder and harder to predict these days, Christmas such

a changed holiday for me over the years, the required Christmas lists

I can’t come up with and getting the shopping done earlier, finished

by Halloween to get it mailed early for guaranteed on-time Christmas delivery –

“you know how the post office is!”, not to mention the political correctness

of Holiday Wishes so as not to offend, offending either way. And I wonder

if Santa has ordered early from Amazon for on-time delivery and does

IKEA even make mangers, if I’m ever in need of one – you never

know – though I doubt it, my need and their availability.

 
So awake on a midnight clear, clearly in distress, I dress warm

against the cold and dark, bundled up in a coat and cap and mittens,

and carefully let myself out, careful not to wake anyone else in the house,

they able to sleep through my restless wandering, it would seem.

Not too many places to go in the dark of night, midnight and clear,

so I follow a well-worn path to the water’s edge and sit myself down

on the old dock, long since pulled out of the water, by law, and gaze

out over the lake, a thin layer of ice newly formed on its surface reflecting

the stars and planets, the heavenly bodies and the mythology that formed

in man’s earlier imagining, questioning, his own answers by chance

found there in his before Christmas funk and wandering out, sleepless, too,

on a midnight clear and looking up, alone to think, to brood, to figure

it out, searching the heavens, as I am now, seeking peace at Christmas,

if not for the whole world, at least for myself, my small space in the universe.

This night’s sky has music in it, the cosmic sound of the stars and moon singing

their mythic folk tales of their own orbits and the earth shining below them,

hymns to the wonderment of this peopled planet they move around, rising

and setting, aligned by the seasons of a world of men who no longer see,

who no longer stop and wonder, except this night, this single man, alone

and listening, questioning himself, an anxious soul lost in the infinity

of space, and in his smallness, open this one night to the possibilities

of the heavens, to the mythology of the stars on a midnight clear,

a weary world in solemn stillness lying,

long suffering,

                          seeking himself,

                                                   seeking peace.

And the voices of the stars, blending, grow louder,

a crescendo rising in the quiet of this midnight clear,

the words ringing out, this love-song which they sing:

 
           And you, beneath life’s crushing load whose forms are bending low,

who toil along the climbing way with painful steps and slow,

Look Now! for glad and golden hours come swiftly on the wing.

Oh, rest beside the weary road, and hear the angels sing!
 

And then it was gone, the music silenced, and all I heard was a soft

breeze lightly blowing across the lake, a hush, a peace descending

this midnight clear, star filled and still, the mythology of heaven keeping watch,

as wandering out to hush the noise of strife and war, I stopped to listen,

And with my own voice now, my own song, I create anew this season of peace,

this season of joy, to find, not the latest sales, the long lists of what I want,

what I think I need, but the spirit of the Christmas message, simply put,

the angels’ song sung this midnight clear, alone under the heavens,

dressed warm against the cold and dark, sleepless, wandering and wondering:

Peace on the earth, goodwill to men from Heaven’s all gracious King. 

Winter Solstice

-- A Song of Hope --

At the morning’s first light this Solstice Day,

pale and pink over the horizon dark now against the sky’s

fading darkness, like our own Stonehenge here where we live

on the shores of Hebron, our reminder of our own time passing;

in this place, we celebrate the Sun’s slow return toward Earth,

the newness it brings to warm us and refresh our dreams

and visions, life and hope renewed in the season’s first day,

the light returning, reclaiming us as her children.

Olivia, River Otter

A Poem for my Grandson, Brayden, and his new friend,
Oliver River Otter on the occasion of their surgery.

Poor Olivia, Olivia River Otter;

playing in the river, floating

on the ripples and waves,

she cut her foot on a sharp rock

at the water’s edge, and it hurt,

really hurt, maybe even broke it,

and now she needs, like you, surgery

to fix her up, make her good as new,

better than new, all fixed up.

So off to sleep she goes, snoring

as otters snore, softly wheezing,

and dreaming of sunshine on the river

and otters splashing and playing,

diving below the water and coming up

with a splash of water spraying, but

it made her little brother cry, got

water in his eyes, so she cozied up

to him and chased the tears away.

And then she woke up, a little groggy

from her sleep, but a smile still on her face,

for otters always smile and laugh and play,

except now, she’s got a bandage on her foot,

and though it doesn’t hurt, well, maybe

just a little, she has to rest, take it easy,

before the bandage can come off and

she can swim in the river again, splashing

and playing, diving below the water.

But this made her sad, a tear forming

in her eye and spilling down her otter cheeks.

What is she to do? Poor Olivia, Oliver River Otter.

Oh, she’s come to be with you, stuck together

in this hospital bed, waiting to get well,

all fixed up, as good as new, better

than new, but she’ll need you to cozy up

with her, to cheer her up and chase the tears away,

bring the smile and the laughter back to her face.

And this is the story of Brayden and Olivia,

Olivia River Otter, stuck together in a hospital,

but stuck together is better than stuck alone,

each to cheer up the other, cozied up together.

Weakest Link

" … a chain is only as strong as its weakest link …"

In the harbor lies a ship, flags unfurled, proud,

formidable, and strong, thirty-five thousand tons held

fast at anchor against a storm raging, secured by iron links

linked one to another, one purpose, united to hold fast

the ship and keep free a nation always at war;

so, too, is that nation anchored, held fast against

a raging storm of itself, but its anchor cannot be held long,

its chains too weak, the links of families pulled too taut,

stretched too tightly, little left to hold them together,

and the nation, imperiled in a raging storm, is dashed

against the rocks of its own foundation, to perish in a sea

of discord, in the waters of humanity divided, adrift in the brokenness

of families torn apart by a nation always at war with itself.

Early Morning December Snow

 An early morning December snowfall

falls lightly in the growing light

of a new day, reminding us of fresh starts,

eagerly anticipated, and the strength within us

to endure the changes coming into our lives

after the darkness is lifted.

Wood Smoke

Smoke rises up my neighbor’s chimney, lingering

there, indicating heat and warmth and protection

against freezing pipes in the winters’ bitter cold.

He heats with wood, laying in cord upon cord

of stove lengths split for better burning, stored

in his wood shed, daily trips out and back in to keep

the wood box filled by the stove, a cozy place,

and to empty the ash from the ash bucket.

 

Me? My wood stove lies cold in the other building,

the “summer home” across the yard, down by the water’s edge,

camp shut up when the ground begins to freeze solid

and a wood fire is just too much trouble, the floors too cold

mornings for the bottoms of my feet, and we move across

to the “winter home,” heat from forced air and natural gas,

timed to come on when the temperatures drop, bringing

the house to room temps by 6 am and I rise from my bed.

 

But my neighbor, neighborly, shares his smoke when the winds

drift in from the east through the woods to my place,

the smell of wood burning, pungent and sharp, acrid,

but most comforting in its memories of wood fires past:

- camp fires and smores, the smoke following us around

the fire pit, camp songs sung and harmonized, out of tune,

but no one minded, and gazing in silence we shared old times

remembered, the good old days; - and bon fires burning on a winter hill,

warmth after a long toboggan run down and out across the swamps

and the long climb back up, caked in snow, our toes and fingers

cold in wet mittens and woolen socks, caps and scarves,

our laughter ringing out of the darkness, holding each other,

and hot dogs skewered for roasting before the next run

on a moonlit night; - and a small fire lit on a skating pond,

cleared, and, holding hands, the two of us glide around

and around, oblivious to the others oblivious to us,

the sound of blades on ice, soft, a love song sung of promises

made and kisses stolen, tight hugs between two bodies

kept warm together, and safe, on a winter’s night.

 

Our lives are kindled by the wood fires we share,

warming us then and still in the heat and smoke of memories

made, memories carried now on a winter wind drifting in

from the east, from my neighbor, smoke rising up and lingering. 

At Home in Winter's Half-light

At home in winter’s half-light, all day,

a welcome respite for what’s to come, storm

clouds building on the horizon, blue-gray covering

the sky, altostratus clouds, the weather map calls them,

snow clouds promising snow; the weatherman

confirms for me that it will come, lots of it, this first storm,

today but a precursor to tomorrow and a long day of shoveling,

clearing the yard, keeping the driveway open, “just in case” we need

to get out, a loaf of bread, a gallon of milk, toilet

paper, “god forbid” (we should run out!) or perhaps,

worse, keeping it open “just in case” we need an ambulance,

in bound, an emergency arising, overworking at shoveling,

overdoing and needing assistance, 9-1-1 on the line assuring us

help is coming, the distant wail of a siren making its way

through falling snow. And at the end of tomorrow, surviving, I’ll be

worn out, muscles sore and aching, back tight and bending forward,

slow to straighten, slow to enjoy a quiet evening’s reward, a glass

of wine and a log on the fire. So today, all day, in the winter half-light,

I’m sitting here by the western window, snow-clouds forming

and a slight breeze gaining strength, dry leaves blown or clinging

tightly to a naked branch hanging bare, anticipation of something

coming this way, something “wicked,” sitting here rocking, a mug

of coffee to warm me, watching this little corner of the world prepare itself

for change, a softening of the cold horizon, the bare trees and ambered

grass gone dormant, a winter sleep under a covering of snow. But today,

I can dream of the peace of winter, the beauty of snow and ice, glistening,

for tomorrow, the snow’s fierce arrival will remind me of winter’s

harsh reality and the winter work ahead, keeping ahead of the falling snow. 

Bent Nails

Parts of an old barn and an old chicken coop,

bits and pieces of anything we could find

and haul away to the near woods, a broken wheel

and a wooden crate, even the rusted bed of a pickup truck

long removed and dumped here, but it was still sturdy,

not that it mattered really, for today we are building

a fort from which to defend ourselves, the five of us

boys from around the old farm neighborhood, once a grand

homestead and dairy barn, now gone to rot and ruin and a mecca

for young boys in need of building material, bits and pieces,

parts of anything we could find. So we dragged it all

across the yard and over the field, overgrown and littered,

innumerable trips, pushing and pulling, dragging and lugging

what we could, so many trips out and back until our

fortress began to take shape, sturdy walls propped up

and lashed together with bailing wire, strands of rotted rope

knotted many times, old bent nails pounded somewhat straight,

and an old barn door reinforced to keep it shut fast against those

who, foolishly, might attack, laying siege to this our fort, our stronghold.

It took us days of hauling and building and reinforcing, searching

and finding more to use, just to get it right, right down to the secret

door in the back for a quick escape in time of need. And in as many days

of building, we moved on, back to school or a family vacation or some

other youthful adventure calling us away, and from our minds and lives,

the fort was abandoned, over-taken, perhaps, and we fled away out

the secret door to safety. Except Timmy, Tim, today Timothy,

Lord of the Castle, the King who returned day after day to rule the fort

by himself, he alone to maintain its battlements, raise its standard high

and lower it when he left, safely stowing it in an old crate

until he disappeared one day, he and his family and the U-Haul trailer

carrying their sparse possessions, all they owned;

he never told us, never said good-bye, and we never saw him again,

not even a postcard to say he was gone, and this day returning here,

we wonder, where did he go? Whom did he become?

 

Now there are three of us left to remember: John missing in Vietnam,

never came home, not even a box in a deep-dug grave; George came

safely home, but he is scarred, not the same anymore; Eddy’s

a big success in some big city, a high roller, divorced, again, yet happy,

his hands wrapped around a whiskey bottle; and me, winded and a nagging

cough I can’t shake from too many years of nicotine, an old habit, comforting.

We paused frequently in our climb, this group of old men, crawling

through brush and briar grown up across the yard, over the field

to where the fort had once been, no reason to go, just to go back, to remember,

to quell our wondering, our curiosity, and to verify the stories we told

about part of a barn and an old chicken coop, our fortress, that part of our lives

when we were ten years old and all we had, all that mattered anymore,

was each other, a now tattered standard stowed away, deep in a broken box

buried under a pile of rubble, bits and pieces, and the remains of an old

fort remaining fresh in our memories, that and the stories that we’ve told

all these years gone by, our lives held together by bailing wire, rotted rope

knotted many times, and the bent nails we pounded straight.

An Encounter

Behind the night’s darkness, they stay hidden,

hiding beyond the circle of the headlamp I wear

to guide us safely down the road, the dogs and I,

unaware they are even there, whatever wild

life they may be, lurking there, watching us pass.

But the dogs can sense them, and alerted, know something is

there, hearing their movements, smelling their musky scent,

stopping as they have to sniff, to listen, to gaze into

the darkness, marking this spot as theirs. And as I

wait for them, staring myself into that same darkness,

the circle of my headlamp lifted from the path,

surveying, now, the wilds beyond, and thus illuminated,

I can see their yellow eyes glowing, their yellow eyes

but two small lights in the darkness, body-less they seem,

and noting our intrusion – a warning? – they tolerate our presence,

yet will us to move on; no words are spoken, no grunts

or growls, unafraid, and at this moment, a connection

is exchanged in the wilderness of these woods, in the wildness

of our own lives. I tug the dogs’ leashes, and we resume our steps,

moving away, made richer, perhaps, by stopping, richer

by those two yellow eyes watching us from the darkness,

yellow eyes taken into our circle of light, unafraid.

Secrets, Perhaps, We Cannot Share

She snapped her suitcase shut and slid

it back into the closet, way in the back,

out of the way, shutting away the remnants

of her vacation, the beach sand and bar napkins,

embossed in gold with the bars’ names, a lipstick kiss

where she dabbed a freshened shade of red,

a phone number hastily written that she never called,

tempted as she might have been, but that was last week,

the week before, and now it’s back to the 9 to 5

of her job and the life she had to return to, those

adult responsibilities fated us by age and growing up,

who we are, where we come from, time and place

and parentage, things we can’t escape, and the hidden things

we can’t admit to, secrets, perhaps, we cannot share,

things locked in a suitcase, latched and slidden back into the closet. 

Orion Returns

Early in this season of color and cold

and darkness descending too soon, too close

to the dinner hour, I await the return

of Orion’s constellation, the Hunter,

his belt of three stars – Alnitak, Alnilam,

and Mintaka – and his raised club

and shield, he one of the few heavenly

arts I recognize, easily found in the winter sky,

Orion,  the winter maker.  And now, around ten

on a clear night he steps onto the eastern horizon,

armed to begin his journey, earlier and earlier

in darkness, seeking me, perhaps, this heavenly

shepherd, cosmic dancer, swordsman of the sky,

my mythic companion, guardian on my journey,

this quest I take through the seasons of my life,

a journey begun to hell itself and returning home. 

Mid-October

Mid-October

and the reds and golds and yellows

have reached their peak,

perhaps passed it and

fallen now gently to earth

to rustle, crisp, beneath our feet,

me and the dogs out walking,

clearing our heads, an excuse just to breathe

deep the autumn air and feel our spirits

lifting, raising us up to its seasonal heights,

readying us, remembering, for the changes ahead. 

The Tin Man

The tin man is cold, stone cold,

he who recently chose happiness over a brain,

not heeding the wizard’s warning, hearts

not practical until they can be made unbreakable,

but he insisted, and as Dorothy clicked her heels

together, “there’s no place like home,” and vanished

in a swirl of glitter, he felt his warm heart break.

Within weeks, he was unable to bear it any longer,

and welcomed the Noon King’s turning him to stone,

cold hard stone, awaiting Dorothy’s return, loving her,

all of them, waiting, knowing she would come, all perhaps

but the tin man, hopeful, but doubtful, rejected in love,

heartbroken, forgetting that “a heart is not judged by how much

you love, but by how much you are loved by others,”

even as Dorothy fought her way back from Kansas through the tangle

of destruction Oz had become, risking it all for the love of a tin man,

a scarecrow straw-stuffed, and a cowardly lion wearing his medal,

a yellow brick road from Munchkin Land, and an Emerald kingdom. 

Nuthatch

Blue steel, black and gray,

white breasted, or red like

his cousin, scurrying up a tree

and, turning around, back down,

face-forward in search of what

lies hidden within, tapping lightly

with his pointed bill, hatching, or

seeking the seed inside my feeders,

oil rich sunflowers, black or hulled,

peanuts, storing it away, wedged

in bark, laying up for the lean

months of winter ahead.

Where Two Fences Meet

Where two fences meet at the corner

the leaves gather, blown there by the autumn winds

swirling them across the yard and down the pathway

through my garden, gone now, too, in the changing

of the season, summer into fall, the leaves gathering

to face the transformation together, green gone to gold

and red and orange, as we all must in the waning seasons

of our own years, where two fences meet at the corner. 

Where is the Poem

Where is the poem

that lies hidden

in the autumn wind,

lifting it up, turning it

like a red leaf blown,

over and over again,

and setting it down quietly

on the ledge outside my window,

bedded there to rest, awaiting

the season’s change,

waiting to be written.

Tinnitus

 A dark night, moonless, heaven’s lights hidden

behind an overcast sky, the kind forecasting gloom,

and lying in bed, the only sound is the ringing in my ears,

tinnitus, that constant noise we learn to tune out, except

on nights like this, that and the house settling, and a branch,

perhaps, scraping against the walls, or scratching the window;

even the dogs are silent, listening, raising their heads and hearing

something beyond my perception, or an owl screeching off in the distance,

only the soft click of their tags hitting the floor when they put

their heads down again, startling me, nothing more, the ringing

in my ears and the gloom of a darkened night here in the woods.

 

My sleep is restless, tossing and turning, nodding off and waking

again, a sleep full of the strange dreams I’ll not remember in the morning,

except their strangeness, the waking up, the glimpses of what

might have been, might be, remembering, though, too well, the restless

sleep, the ringing in my ears, the darkness, and an overcast sky

forecasting gloom, an invitation to the things that lurk there

behind the dreams, behind the darkness and the silence of the night.

 

It was this way in childhood, tucked safely into my bed, but the sleep

not coming easily, even then, the silence intensifying and the night noises

taking form out of the silence, things invited into reality by my imagination

and childhood fears, the darkness and the monsters under

the bed, hiding in the closets, the strange sounds and shadows

that crept out, crept in, their sounds low and rough, coming from

nowhere and everywhere, and I’d pull the covers and the pillows

over my head, pull my teddy close, but to no avail, evil was there. Now,

older and wiser and far more logical, knowing the noises aren’t

what they appear to be, aren’t what I think they are, aren’t the haunting shadows

in the corners of my room, but just the furnace roaring to life, a door clicking

shut, air in the pipes, not specters rising through the floor. My imagination,

fertile in childhood, has matured over the years, adulthood into old age,

and it has again released the shades and shadows, again their voices,

well preserved and louder now, calling out, the moans and roars of a silence

broken as terrorizing as before, tucked into a bed in a room I shared with my brother,

terrors returning again to me who created them all those years ago; they’ve found me

here in adulthood, scared still and pulling the covers and pillows over my head,

shutting them out, pushing them away, they nothing but the irrational fears

of an 8-year-old, irrational fears come to life in old age, the fears I never

conquered, the fears of the dark, of what might be there, hidden, the fears

of not waking up or, worse, waking up alone and finding myself lost

in a world I only imagined, a dark world afraid, this imaginary place

suddenly made real again, all these years later, the shades and the shadows,

the specters of death rising in a silence broken, rising through the floor,

hiding in the corners of darkness, creeping out, creeping in.

Rain Always Follows the Cattle

 - A Poem for Susan -

Rain always follows the cattle,

or so say the old farmers well-versed

in folk lore, the reading of the signs

left in nature, like my grandfather

who swore by the cows as predictors of rain:

if they’re lying down, rain is coming in,

but standing up, these cud-chewing bovines

feeding, and there’ll be no rain, safe for gardening,

safe for haying, safe to work the land, safe

for a moonlit drive, a horse drawn cart plodding

around the field and down the lane with family,

a Saturday social, community coming together.

Or the moon, a quarter moon: he always said

if you could hang a bucket safely there, a feat

I couldn’t imagine, no rain would fall, but

if the bucket couldn’t safely hang there, but slip

right off, the moon not a good hook for a bucket

handle, rain would follow, water spilled from the bucket falling.

 

I never knew whether to believe him or not, too young

myself to tell if he was telling a story, making this up,

or if he had some vast wisdom, some secret knowledge,

some experience that I lacked. And now, 60 years later,

Gramp long gone from earth, joining the sages and old farmers,

I still don’t know, not sure to believe him or not; I’ve seen

the truth about cows and moons often enough, sometimes accurate,

sometimes not, just not sure, city born, city bred, “civilized,”

for I have not learned those ancient skills of nature’s signs,

divination, folklore, untrusted, a sin even, of witchcraft,

a lost art gone with the grave, gone from us the unbelieving,

the unsure, the ignorant of country ways, lost

to a future grounded in proof, grounded in certainty.

How Important It Must Be

- A Poem for Dottie -

How important it must be,

this time, just sitting here,

backs against a sand dune,

and watching the ocean’s tides

roll in and back out, carrying

with them tiny grains of sand,

time worn, ancient, older by far

than us just sitting here, watching,

silent and remembering other tides

rolling in and back out, carrying us. 

It is September

 

 - A Poem for Abby -

It is September, and a cool breeze

reminds us of summer’s passing and autumn

just around the corner, blowing in. The kids,

if they haven’t yet, will be starting school soon,

the sounds of football and marching bands in the air

and the days, growing shorter, darker before dinner,

dusk and the streetlights coming on, lighting our way

home to the memories of our own Septembers,

summers passing and autumn just around the corner,

the squeak of new shoes on a linoleum floor, chalk dust

coating our fingers and wiped on new trousers, the warning

to keep them clean, as we practiced our letters and numbers,

adding them up and subtracting them, times tables memorized,

learning to divide, readying us for the divisions yet to come

in the years ahead, loves lost and old friends gone, retired

to Florida, snowbirds, or gone the way of life, dying early,

leaving us alone, remembering in the cool breeze of September.

Step Forward

Step forward, confident, onto the next step

of the ladder leading to the heavens,

where the moon and the stars shine, brilliant

in the dark skies above us, as you, too,

will shine in the darkness, stepping up,

a bright light in a world waiting, crying out for you.

Beauty Restored

This spring I tore out a garden past

it’s prime with a hoe and a rake and a spade

and the sweat and dust of exertion, stripped

it down to bare earth, a tangle of roots and rocks

removed, and unsure what to do with it, let it sit,

the only thing growing there the weeds I’d pluck out

in passing, tossed on the compost heap to wither and die.

 

A barren garden cries out for beauty, the green of new growth

and color, so I revived the soil with loam and peat and spread

it thick with wildflower seeds, and watered and waited, watched

the little shoots in darkness push through to sunshine,

a velvet covering of green inching upward to leaves and stalks,

one inch, then two, and higher still, little colored buds beginning,

white and yellow, pink and blue and purple, opening to flower

and turning this garden space into a tiny meadow, the buzz

of bees arriving and new flowers dancing in the breeze, beauty restored,

and with it, me, a garden past my prime, a tangle of roots and rocks.