New Years Eve, 2022

Putting the old year to rest, settling itself into history

and memories, some to be forgotten, recalled,

bittersweet, that which was giving way to that

which will be in this new year coming, counting

down like the end of a time fast approaching,

a ball dropping, or the start of some race beginning,

a commencing – and GO!  Face it full speed ahead,

pacing ourselves for the long race, a steeplechase

of obstacles, of changes in front of us, or blind-sided,

some rash endeavor or one carefully planned, a roadmap

of detours, stops, and starts, starting over; and what shall

we become but another year older, another year wiser, or just

another year added to our lives or taken; and how shall we

we spend it? Squander it, the old one day at a time that never

really happens, or save it up for later, but saving it, though,

for whom, or for what in the new year soon to replace

the old, put to rest, settling into history and memory, that

which was:  5 – 4 – 3 – 2 – 1, GO! 

On an Ocean's Edge

On Christmas Eve, somewhere, quiet,

he took himself to an ocean’s edge

bathed in starlight, and star lit, listened

again to the Christmas story carried

on the wind’s hush and soft waves, on earth

Peace, Goodwill to all peoples, the Hope

of all humanity, a savior born. 

A Christmas Poem (2022)

Contrary to Clement Moore, t’was not sugarplums dancing in my head

the night before Christmas, for images of dancing sugarplum fairies,

vis-à-vis the Nutcracker, was not a pleasant sight, giant mice, sword

fights, and a broken nutcracker soldier come to life. No, t’was Gram’s

gingerbread cookies carried me off to bed that Christmas Eve, soft and rich,

one for each hand, climbing the stairs to bed, a bribe, anything to get me

to go to bed, to go to sleep, lest Santa not come, a child’s fear and threat.

But a confession, I feigned sleep, too much sugar for an eager and anxious,

impatient, child of 7 at bedtime, Christmas Eve, fearing St. Nick passing us by

or discovering myself on the naughty list, my brother’s warning, he

had seen the list. I just knew I’d find a lump of coal nestled in the toe

of my stocking, a public acknowledgement to everyone, what comes

of sneaking cookies before dinner, or hiding sisters’ dolls, or worse, a lie

told to mothers, claiming an illness to stay home from school, a bold lie I told,

this the cause of my name on the naughty list, highlighted, double-starred,

this lump of coal my public shame. Through tears and sobs, I would watch

the others open their presents and me without any, not a single wrapped box

or bag bearing my name under the tree, no socks, no underwear, no ugly

sweater, nothing, no electric train set, underlined, at the top of my Christmas list.

Secretly, though, I did try to stay awake, get away with something, just

long enough to hear reindeer hooves on the roof and the jingle of sleigh bells,

hear the struggles of Santa coming down our little chimney, catching

a glimpse of him, all dressed in red, padding off to the bathroom, too old

to wet my bed in the excitement of reindeer pawing on our roof, sleigh bells;

Santa would understand, wouldn’t he? Or seeing me, repack his bag

and leave, leaving us without Christmas, the cardinal holiday rule broken,

the milk and cookies and sugar for reindeer left on the table, untouched.

They’d know who to blame, who it was that didn’t go to sleep, not inviting me

to Christmas next year, if ever again, sending me away for Christmases to come.

But sleep came, eventually, tears and visions of tutu’d gingerbread men dancing

in my head and two crumbling in my clenched hands, uneaten,

a mumbled apology, and a trail of dried tears running down my cheeks.

 

Morning arrived, early, the other children waking me, the stockings

heaping where they had been carefully, lovingly hung, even mine,

not hanging flat, no large lump of coal to weigh it down, but full, overflowing,

candy canes and gum drops, socks and toys and treats. Santa had come, again,

and I had missed him, all dressed in red, the chimney, the reindeer, not even

a trip to the bathroom, and no wet bed; I was on the nice list after all. My pleading

and promises had worked, some guilt and tears added to help with my sincerity.

Santa had yet again snuck in, no wet spot of snow on the floor, the carpet

dry by the fireplace, no hoof prints on the roofs, and under the tree

all the evidence I needed to keep believing in Santa Claus, in old Saint Nick,

believing still in the magic of a Christmas Eve, the night before Christmas,

and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, just me, eager and

anxious and 7 years old and wanting to see him for myself, just to be sure.

Even now, this year, much, much older, I still believe, still watching,

eager and anxious, impatient, still listening for sleigh bells and

reindeer hooves, visions of gingerbread cookies dancing, off

to sleep lest Santa not come and finding myself on the naughty list. 

Holiday Forecast

The forecast calls for more

of the same, gray skies and

rain, unseasonable weather

this year, fa-la-la-la-la!

But it is the Holiday season,

whatever Holy Day you choose

to observe, to celebrate, sharing

the traditions, the customs and

food and music with friends,

with family; the blue skies and

sunshine of the celebration,

though, are always in season,

always seasonable. 

Nature Lives Here Where We Live

Nature lives here, up north, where we live,

crossing the highways and byways and back

country roads we call our own, carved out

in our wanderings, or creating their own trails

through the trees and underbrush, the open fields

grown tall in summer or buried deep in snow,

trails crossing over our yards, passing through,

or perhaps openly grazing on our lawns

and gardens, warmed by the sun, or resting

in moonlight, highlighted against the darkness:

the fox and her kits, an early morning forage,

an evening’s stroll; the deer, a small group, white

tails high, bounding on spindly legs, spooked

and fleeing; the otter fresh from a swim, or a beaver

pausing; a coyote or wolf, rare, more heard than seen,

watchful and cautious; squirrels, red and grey or flying,

tree to tree scurrying, the mice and the rodents who live here,

warm and safe underground; birds by the score, the chickadee

and nuthatch, wren and finch and robin, the larger jays,

doves, woodpeckers, great and small, pounding for grubs

and seed, an eagle circling overhead, and a summer mallard

and her brood of ducklings newly hatched; the loons, diving,

call out on a summer’s eve, and a flock of turkeys

around Thanksgiving, flaunt themselves as survivors;

and the moose we thought we heard last night crossing our yard.

 

And this we have learned; this world is not ours

to do with as we wish, taking what we want

and leaving behind destruction and ruin, waste and

abuse, nor theirs alone, but a world shared, a communal

wilderness, a more diverse community of lives, mammal

and bird, reptile and fish, amphibia; perhaps, though,

it is they, nature’s wild ones, who have the greater birthright,  

a freedom we lack in our civilized lives, fighting ourselves

to lay claim to that which we cannot take, cannot call our own.