The new year approaches,
the last page of
my calendar set
to be torn off and
a new one
placed on my desk,
counting off
the year ahead,
one day at a time,
a day returning
only in faint memories;
and how shall we remember that one
day
we leave behind, each
day
gone, torn off and replaced?
Christmas Eve
and the sky is rich,
starlit, full, and silent,
and the
soft refrains
of peace resound,
echoing back
to
hearts attuned,
hearts beating, and still,
waiting, anticipating
… Peace,
Peace on earth and goodwill.
The lake is weaving its crystals
into the winter’s world of ice and
snow;
the chickadee and nuthatch, dove
and junco, feeding below my window,
prepare themselves, too, for the
season ahead.
(Part of the Princess Series of Poems)
Belle’s beast discovered love in
Villeneuve’s Beauty,
keeping him alive, back in his
castle prison, nursed
to health rather than left to die
by a pack of wolves gnawing,
gnashing; and she, the inventor’s
daughter, motherless, wanting more,
discovered her love for him in
being set free, Beast prepared
to stay a beast forever, the last
rose petal falling, because
he loved her, an unspoken gesture,
not knowing she would,
with a kiss, an admission of love
returned, set him free,
the spell broken, and a prince once
more restored, enchanted,
in this tale as old as time,
song as old as
rhyme,
Beauty and the Beast.
The Pilgrims, the Puritans,
immigrants all,
meant well enough, leaving home and
country,
enduring a long sea voyage, 66
days, below deck,
sick and harassed, crossing to an
uncharted future
and the cold winter of New England,
Plymouth’s Colony,
alone among strangers and unknown
threats, indentured,
they themselves but a small
congregation seeking
sanctuary and sanctity, perhaps seeking
a new Eden,
and facing the harsh realities of a
new world unsettled,
a new life, starting over,
well-meaning, but one wonders
if their simple faith was strong
enough to endure,
strong enough to break free of the
persecutions
to find the Utopia they sought, a
pilgrimage
through time, ending, perhaps, in today.
Under God’s blue sky
and the dark vastness of stars
and planets, galaxies well beyond
our reach and comprehension,
a panoply of time and space,
ever revolving, evolving, ordered,
there we are born, we live and we
die,
life but one short stop on our
journey forward
back to Eden’s Garden, leaving
behind
our footprints, a path to follow, and posterity.
Autumn winds blow strong,
the tree tops swaying, sweeping
clear
the clouds, turning the sky, gray
to a brilliant blue, bringing
with it snow and cold, a reminder
of the winter season soon ahead.
(Part of the Princess Series of Poems)
Cinderella waltzes into our dreams,
kindness in a blue gown and glass
slippers,
her reward for believing in pumpkin
carriages,
fairie godmothers, and magical
balls,
here to remind us of Happily Ever
After,
childhood delights, and kindness’
rewards.
is a brass instrument played softly,
easy and smooth, a slow legato
holding back
its forte, mezzo piano, a fortissimo restrained,
to carry itself aloft on the Autumn breezes,
Gabriel’s tune, this music softly played, calling to us,
carrying us into the winter season’s darkened silence.
There will be no Trick-or-Treaters
again this year
at the far end of Pleasant Street
where I live,
no little ghosts or goblins,
witches or super-heroes,
no rock stars or princesses of the
Disney ilk, nor villains,
no little knocks on my door by tiny
hands, barely heard,
no “Trick or Treats” on my opening
to them, parents
with watchful eyes standing in the
background among the shadows,
cautious, and no big bowl of candy,
Snickers and 3 Musketeers,
Milk and Dark chocolate, almonds or
none, no Gummy Bears,
Tootsie Rolls, or Tootsie Pops, no
M&Ms, no big bowl at all
waiting by my door, just as there
hasn’t been one there in past years,
no need. Not even the older
teenagers with malice in mind
dare venture way out where I live,
a long dark walk
through darker woods, the noise of
unseen things
staring out, my pumpkins safe,
again, from pranksters,
protected, perhaps, by the lost souls
of Halloween
rising from their graves, or where
they fell down dead, to roam
the small parcel of time and place
I share with them, isolated,
these old souls set free this one
night of the year,
All Hallows Eve, returning and restless.
After the darkness is over, the
chaos
and uncertainty – afraid and
waiting –
we will need a new candle to light the
way,
one small flame flickering to guide
our steps.
We long for peace, beg for it,
that peace of the Christmas season
where the nativity and the creche
remind us of long ago’s
anticipation
of Christmas morning, stockings
hung full
and presents wrapped and bowed under
the tree,
anticipating the peace of the
season, goodwill
to men, only to find it gone now,
packed away
with the tinsel and the ornaments,
recycled
with the tree, denuded and placed
at the end
of the driveway for pick up, or
boxed up
with the artificial trees crammed
back
into their boxes they never seemed
to fit
into once removed, taped shut or
bound
with cords tightly tied, or perhaps
the peace
of the season is returned or
exchanged
like the gift we didn’t really
want, found
tacky and taken back, refunded,
replaced.
Maybe if it came wrapped in a large
sparkly box
bearing the logo of Louis Vuitton, Christian
Dior,
Bloomingdale’s or Neiman Marcus, Guggi
or Chanel, instead of a manger
birth born
into poverty, a common laborer, we
might more
readily recognize it, that Peace of
the season,
year-round, finding it within
ourselves, within each other,
kept there for sharing, not hidden
away, locked up
for safe keeping, this Peace we long
for,
this Peace of the season, Peace on
Earth,
Good Will toward men.
He is one of the beautiful birds,
raucous
but beautiful, with his hues of
blue
and white and gray and black, his
head tufted
and his call sharp, loud and shrill
in the morning
hours around the feeders, bullying
off the smaller
birds to gorge himself and his
mates on the sunflower
seeds we provide for them all, the
small ones flickering in,
grabbing a seed, and flickering
away under watchful eyes;
There were six of them; now there
are five:
one lone bird ground feeding,
undisturbed, and a small dog,
mine, let loose, onto the chase,
and he ran off, not flew, but ran
into the brush, a clean escape,
running, walking fast, as he spent
the rest of the day, grounded,
undisturbed, yet fearful, cautious,
walking, into the early evening …
and the next morning, too, lacking
signs of injury, no dazed look,
glazed look of a closed window
encounter, reflecting the outside,
no broken wing, no signs of it,
just not flying, no obvious
distress … one lone bird …
just a body and a pile of leaves, hues
of blue and white,
gray and black, silenced and still
amidst green turned to gold
and rust, muted colors, beautiful even
in his passing, touching
our lives, strangers here in the
wild, nature’s mysteries,
nature’s way revealed to us here in
our own back yard.
A cool night and a light rain,
and smooth jazz,
Wynton
mellow on the horn
and the ivories
tickled,
the soft pulse of
a bass
ushering in autumn, seasoned, soft,
a slow slide into
fall’s retreat.
Freedom is a wild animal
caged, snarling, pacing back
and forth and back again
behind iron bars separating us,
daring us to step closer, infringe
on its space, a warning, a threat,
when what they seek is found
beyond the unlocked door where
freedom is granted, liberty
bestowed
in the commonwealth of humanity.
September is still summer,
but autumn is not too far removed,
creeping closer with temperatures
dropping,
more dark than light; the kids are
now back in school
and summer folks are closing up
camps and heading home,
heading south; and the smell of
woodsmoke rising,
acrid and sharp, idly drifting from
chimneys, fires lit
to keep us warm on these cooler
mornings, preparing us
for the season ahead, the cold and
snow of winter.
Standing up to our knees in the
ocean’s currents,
numbing cold and a wind-swept
spray, we can feel
the power of the earth pulling at
us, to take
us further out into the sea, out
beyond the breaking
waves, a reminder that as earth’s
children
we share that same force coursing
through us,
connecting us to all that is good
and powerful,
something bigger than ourselves,
part and parcel
of the universe, that which all men seek, seeking peace
In the heat of the morning,
outside, bright
sun, we sat ourselves down, a
semi-circle, of sorts,
of hard chairs, perhaps more a “V” shape,
to play our music, the four of us,
all brass,
a quartet of parts, a tribute to ourselves,
we “Senior Citizens,” as some would
call us,
still playing, a long ago learnéd
skill,
perhaps less refined than younger
days,
but still making music, still
sharing friendships
over melodies composed, these
strings of notes
arranged and harmonized, slightly
out of tune,
the tunes, though, which hold us
together
as the years decrescend into old age.
Oh, that we could all greet
as he greets me, all smiles
and radiance, and running
to me, his arms out to be picked
up and held, a tight hug, this
my little buddy, and off we go
into a world of innocence; but,
no, we learn to keep our distance,
enlarging the space between us,
defensive, yet defenseless,
cautious
and perhaps afraid, even in the hug
we might take, this brief warmth
one to another; and we wonder
where it went, how to get it back,
that joy, that innocence,
wondering, too,
what we could learn from a small
child,
what he might learn from us.
The smell of a fresh mown lawn, of
grass cropped
close to earth, the earthiness of
it, connecting us
to nature’s intentions, to life
itself and the anima within,
more than makes up for the time and
sweat of mowing the lawn.
The loonlets, the kits, and the
fawns at midsummer
are still young, but growing
quickly.
Still skittish, unsure, they stay
close to home,
readying themselves for the change
of seasons
and the challenges ahead, as we all
must,
in this midsummer of our own lives,
unsure, still skittish, and staying
close to home.
I met you once
at
a conference,
and
we talked
after
your presentation,
praising each other’s
contributions
to our lives;
I hugged you hard and wept,
and
you hugged me back, gently,
What I needed just then.
I wanted to write you
to
make sure you’re ok,
to
give you the hug
you
might need, just now, weeping.
(*) Naomi Shihab Nye
Like the young loon chick we
watched
testing
out his new skills,
diving
below the water,
Cam pulls himself deeper, slowly,
cautious,
his
little hands hanging onto the dock’s
edge,
unsure, bobbing there, buoyed up,
tiny
steps forward, and then retreating,
again,
knowing I won’t let him fall.
At night, lying in bed, unable to
sleep,
but remembering, I can still hear
the ocean’s
waves retreating from the shore,
brushing
back the sand into the sea, a soft
hush
kept alive by long summers living
along a rocky coast, moonlit nights
together with you amidst a backdrop
of stars and the songs they sing.
Two loons and their chick floated
past my dock
in early morning silence, the
wisdom of loon-ness
passing on to those born to replace
us, age and youth,
together, creating among us new life,
new growth,
change perhaps, creating among us
eternity.
In the summer sky now, the solstice
behind,
the Virgin, the Lion, and the Great
Bear have moved
westward, leaving the northern
sky’s vista
from my window and replacing them
these warm
summer nights with the Eagle, the
Swan, and the Lyre.
The eagle of Jupiter, Aquila,
carries Zeus’ thunderbolts,
but also carries away to Olympus, stolen,
the young boy
Ganymede, the bearer of the cups of
the gods. Thus honored,
this symbol of freedom, strength,
and beauty, the Eagle is placed
in the summer sky, still at Zeus’
command; or perhaps summer
calls for a more romantic tale of
love spurned and deceit, Zeus’
advances rejected by Nemesis,
Goddess of indignation
and retribution. His love thus refused,
he turned himself
into Cygnus’ Swan, pursued by
Aquila’s Eagle, to be rescued
by Nemesis, as she would do – Zeus,
with evil intent, will not
be denied – and tricked into Zeus’s
arms, the eagle and swan now
placed together, eternal, Aquila
and Cygnus, a reminder of Zeus’
trickery, a summer romance celebrated
in the Greek and Roman skies.
And what of the lyre, the third
constellation, Orpheus’ music
flowing so beautifully as to
enchant every person, every
things, all things, calming the
wildest breast, making the trees
blow in the winds, and pacifying
the tormented souls of men,
his lyre a symbol of balance, of
elevation of the soul,
a luminous guiding force against
the dark forces and the chaos
of nature, strong enough even to
bring back from hades
his beloved wife, Eurydice, snake
killed on her wedding day,
and Orpheus’ music reduced to
despair and anguish, misery and sorrow;
but in hell there are conditions to
be met to conquer death itself,
but unmet - Orpheus so lovesick,
perhaps, looking back at his beloved
still in the underworld’s clutches
- she must now remain, in Hades’ realm,
leaving him to wander, dejected and
despondent, forlorn in love,
this the second sad summer romance of
loss, and the lyre, placed safely
in the summer skies serves a
reminder of balance, of music’s power,
of Orpheus’ virtues given to us
all, a poetic, harmonious nature,
inclined toward grace and refinement,
intelligence and kindness,
but we have become so blind and
deaf, unseeing, not hearing the lyre’s
enchantment, nor calmed by its
music flowing, our souls unpacified.
So in this summer journey westward
toward the Autumn solstice
and the changing of seasons,
remember the Eagle and the Swan
and the Lyre, their stories of
romance and deceit and music, balance,
life remembered this midsummer of our own lives, seeking, perhaps, love.
Remember
the Rocking Horse, that first
pony,
a black filly, a white mane, saddled
to
ride us everywhere and nowhere, hours
of
rocking, hours of stories created and told,
toddler
skills of balance, healthy and soothing,
this
reassurance of motion, the rhythms of life
engrained early, riding over the
hills and down
into the valleys of our
imaginations;
evolved
into an old wooden rocking chair,
the
music of two rockers rocking the floor,
back
and forth and back again, the creak
of
the floor below us, a music, setting free
the
happiness hormones, rocking us slowly
to
sleep, a sleep-inducing motion, at peace,
back
and forth, me and you nestled into my arms;
evolved
today into a well-worn chair, when
you
got too big to rock in my lap, but it’s
rocking
still, flooding me with memories
of
you and the sleepless nights we rocked here,
the
tears you shed, and the stories we told,
the
silly conversations between us, secrets,
the
memories all I have to keep me going
on
the sleepless nights of my own, now, back
and
forth, and back again, carried back to a black
rocking
horse, long outgrown, the music
of
two rockers rocking, a song still singing,
loud
and sweet, still rocking me, singing me to sleep
in
the long cold days of aging, remembering you.
Some talk of a second coming
like it’s the return of someone
gone missing, an absence,
and are cleaning the house, cleaning
up the world, in anticipation,
with strict orders, threats even,
“or else,” not to mess it up,
children
that we are, living here, when the
long
lost Uncle Buck unexpectedly
arrives,
hugs us all around, loving us
equally,
saints and sinners, just as we are,
issues
and problems, differences and dirt
and all,
barely noticing the clean house,
nor the effort
to make it that way, the energy
expended,
just the pain inflicted in the cleansing.
In the solitude of night and age,
thinking about old loves and
lovers,
I miss most your hand clasping
mine,
our fingers intertwined, connecting
us
one to the other, our spirits
joined, too,
in this simple touch, and the
solitude
turns to loneliness, lying here in
the dark.
(1) Day is Done, Gone the Sun
The bugle’s call sounds out
over the water and into the night
air,
silent now after the last note’s
echo ends;
and the lost souls that hear it
still, long after,
weep, not for themselves but for
those
who have yet to learn the ways of peace.
----------
(2) [At night the wind stops blowing]
At night, the wind stops blowing
and the lake becomes as a mirror
reflecting the Peace of our souls
at rest.
And the good Lord in all His many
and varied forms
opened the Good Book, thumbing
through the pages,
dogged-eared and torn, taped
together in places
and yellowed, to get His words
right, exactly
as He had said them, heard them
quoted even, in verses
memorized by the children, simply
believing, yet greedy enough
to work for the prize of memorized
verses, a pin or ribbon
to wear on their Sunday best, or maybe
a new Book
by summer’s end, too new perhaps to
be soiled in reading it,
but He continued to thumb through His
own copy, old and worn thin,
much used, looking for that same verse
He too had memorized once,
and still remembered it, but is it
possible He’d misquoted it,
for it sounded so foreign now, all
these years, eons, since Paul had
written it down; perhaps, too, He
was getting old, a touch of dementia,
something lost in the translation,
or just getting forgetful, so busy,
His creation so needy, making their
lives so hard, so complicated,
putting demands on Him, adding
their own spin to His words
in a world evolving, despite them
and their interference; all He asked
was written there in the Good Book,
even those new-fangled translations,
easier to read and understand, and
misinterpret, when what He said was, “Oh, here,
here it is, right under this fold of a page,” “faith, hope, but the greatest of these is love.”
We walk the local roads, dirt
roads,
dusty and rock strewn, 4-wheel
drive roads,
the dogs and I, roads going nowhere
and everywhere, dead-end roads
leading us
deeper into our own thoughts, into
ourselves,
my eyes scanning all directions, into
the woods
on one side, noting spring’s new
colors, and the passage
of seasons, new trails to follow,
opening up, and the lake
on the other, my neighbors boating,
a friendly wave, an eagle
searching, hearing a bird’s songs,
his calling, the cry
of the loons, and the rustling of
something unseen in the forest,
the huff of deer in warning, or a
bull frog disturbed in our passing,
the smell of earth and earth’s
decay sharp in my nose, the sun
hot or the winds cooling as we plod
along, going nowhere.
And for them, leashed and tugging
me to follow, their noses
to the ground, every smell is rich,
telling, sniffing whatever it is
they decern, a rotted log turned
up, a patch of mud, the scat
of wilderness, a footprint, not
mine nor their, not human,
perhaps some distraction, a far-off
smell or a faint sound
I cannot hear, perking up their
ears, alerting their senses,
a sense of danger present, a sense
of some unknown
leading them along, this their
world just beyond their noses,
a world perhaps forgotten in the
next rock or bush or blade
of grass scented, their own
shortened world changing around them.
But it’s how we go, these roads, a
couple of miles into ourselves,
going nowhere, and discovering,
perhaps, a whole new place
where we are kings, rulers of this
domain we find on our nightly
walks, a couple of miles on the
local roads, dirt roads going nowhere,
going everywhere, leading us into
our own thoughts, into ourselves.
A warm spring day
on the edge of
summer,
the daffodils rise up
imbued by the morning sun.
********************
How far would you travel to find a better life? What if the journey
took weeks under difficult conditions? If you answered, “whatever it
takes,”
you echo the feelings of 12 million immigrants who passed through the now
quiet halls of Ellis Island … [which] afforded them the opportunity to attain
the American Dream
for themselves and their descendants.
National
Parks Service, Ellis Island
She stands alone in a New York
harbor, her torch
held high and freedom’s tablet
still carried on her hip;
she is now, perhaps, just a tourist
attraction, a tourist trap
of glitz and glitter, for the
luxury liners of old with their
lower class holds of immigrants
have stopped, and Ellis
Island has shut down, a museum, a
mausoleum of old stories
and history, the forgotten people
but pictures on the walls.
No longer is she an Enlightenment
to the World, the tired,
the poor, the huddled masses
yearning, none are welcomed now,
cut off from the American Dream
they longed for, all just aliens,
illegals, thieves and terrorists,
rapists and drug dealers invading,
the unwelcomed, the wretched refuse
of teeming shores, jailed,
deported back to the wretched
conditions they escaped in leaving,
poverty and sickness, fear and
danger, death, Liberty’s lamp
extinguished to them, a lamp
darkened by those who have forgotten
their own immigrant roots seeking
their own American Dreams, these
immigrant progeny, generations
afraid of losing their own ambitions,
their goals disrupted, perhaps, by
the dross of a fading Colossus,
an icon of freedom and a symbol of
welcome, alone now in a New York
harbor, a lost reminder of our once
hailed greatness, still calling out
to deaf ears, this mother of
exiles, “send these, your homeless,
tempest-tossed, to me, I lift my
lamp beside the golden door.”
1. The Dragon
Invite the dragon into your home
to perch on the
rafters or on the fireplace
towering above
your hearth, warming himself;
give him space,
‘twill bring you luck and power,
strength
in the new beginnings of your life,
this beautiful, wise, and friendly omen of good fortune.
2. The Bats
Likewise, the bats, nesting in your
home, an auspicious place,
they,
perhaps, but miniature dragons, winged and hidden
up
under your eaves or in the space behind your chimney, their
rustling
heard in the quiet of the night, high pitched squeaks
and
clicks and the flutter of their wings, settling in, heralding
abundant
wealth and good fortune, the good fortune just
to
have been chosen, the wealth of sharing their presence.
3. The Elephant
Too much, the dragons and bats?
Consider,
then, the elephant, less troubling,
if
he fits into your home, though he’ll not sit
on
your rafters nor nest behind your chimney,
as
bats and dragons, but he will bring you luck,
even, to
accommodate yourself, you choose a smaller,
ornamental
variety, perhaps jade, to set upon a shelf,
a curio, or maybe
fine China, being careful, still,
not to break it
and chase good fortune away.
4. The Cricket
Too big? Troubling? Perhaps, then,
the cricket, musical
and
tiny, placed upon your hearth to sing his songs
or
in the corner of your room, attracting love and romance,
or
simply residing in your house, his chirps clearly heard
to
remind you of fortune and knowledge, of your connection
to
your true self, to the spiritual realm from which you come,
and
to the poet and painter you are, the artist within; keep him
safely in your
home, away from the attic and basement, your past
and future, out of
harms’ way, this guardian angel of fortune.
5. The Squirrels
And then there are the squirrels,
scurrying, scampering,
tree
to tree, their cheeks stuffed with seed and nut,
whatever
they can scavenge, playful and light-hearted,
the
larger grays and their cousins in black or red, positive
omens
of fortune, spirit messages to trust your instincts,
to
announce a change of circumstances, happiness and joy,
balance,
resourcefulness, yet a rodent he is, bent on chewing,
a
pest, an invader of homes, a wreaker of havoc, but
a
bearer of good fortune, nonetheless, best seen in his passing
through
your yard, “just visiting,” and leaving behind, luck.
