untitled (quilts always warm)

you don’t have to remind me of that
orange and brown
soft knit afghan quilt that
matched nothing
in our house
but in theirs —

the olive green
and the hanging plates
and that day
laying on the hardwood waiting

no games, no pick up sticks
only a new jewelry box
and my reliable Alley cat
in a house creaking with grief

dismissed
gathering stones
in the drain pipe
that felt like a river bank
little sister in hand
knowing more than they knew –
quilts always warm.

how do you tell someone not to worry about sunrises?

the moon hung precarious
on the ledge of the night,
forlorn and feeling worthless
as if the tiniest breath of air
could send it tumbling into midnight

i’m looking up so scared
every frozen winter breath ascending
in staccato
trepidation – don’t worry
don’t jump

don’t give up.

from creative writing class circa 2001 slightly modified (in fact so is “on the pool deck”):

on the pool deck

i tell you my story
hands flying excited
and we share a laugh
dripping with water, below
laced by lane ropes and
striped like a tiger is
now- silent, calm
we don’t notice the
chills or chlorine,
like restless touches

and i think about
       moving through water
graceful but fast
ripples from fingertips
like casting a spell
so that air becomes charged
with unspoken words –
tense muscles
ready to burst off the block.

visitor hours (just another body in the hall)

Rosie the bird gives
a shrill whistled dare
as I creak up the steps.
The old sit littered
in every hallway, every landing,
they sit and stare, even
my grandfather’s eyes
betray him.

I’ve had enough of the bird
who calls my bluff,

his bloodshot blue eyes
try only so hard —
realize they’re tired and
admit: “I’m just
another body in the hall.”

the week before Christmas

Christmas Eve is a special tradition in my house – we have a “Scandinavian” meal in honor of my mom’s mom’s family. Today, I think a lot about my family, our traditions, what the end of the year means… To honor those who’ve gone before, I’d like to feature one of my great-grandmother’s poems (once again –Where Children Live 1958). She wrote a lot about the holiday (including some greeting cards), and I think it’s nice to spotlight her today. This is one most can relate to – and if you’re feeling like this now, good luck! And Merry Christmas!

The Week Before Christmas

Christmas comes but once a year …
If you ask me, that’s enough!
One week more in which to shop
And is the going rough …
One week more in which to bake,
To wash and iron and clean …
To make out lists I promptly lose,
On which I’ve learned to lean.
Christmas cards still to address,
Packages to send …
Through a long post-office line
My weary way I’ll wend.
Telephone orders to exchange,
This one is worth a laugh …
Size sixteen shirts? My husband wears
A fourteen and a half.
A napkin ring engraved this week?
The clerk seems sort of hazy
And looks at me as if to say,
“Lady! Are you crazy?”
Mentally I’m checking lists …
Order mistletoe,
Bayberry candles, icicles,
And artificial snow.
Check the light bulbs for the tree
And don’t forget the tree …
Are there ornaments enough?
Oh dear, I’d better see.
Order turkey, cranberries,
And mixed nuts from the store …
Have I forgotten something?
The wreath for the front door!
One week more for all the tasks
I’ve set myself to do …
One week of rushing here and there,
But happy through and through.

Christmas 1945

Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it — this poem is from my great-grandmother Alice B. Johnson (from her book Where Children Live (1958))

This is the day, the Christmas day,
The world has waited for —
This is the dream men dreamed of home
For four long years and more.

This is the dream that brought them through
Bastogne and Bougainville —
Through jungle heat and frozen waste,
Beyond each numbered hill.

Hang up the holly, mistletoe,
And light the Christmas tree,
And dream tonight of Bethlehem —
Think not of Calvary.

Think not of crosses in a row
Or comrades resting there —
They sleep above the stars tonight,
Safe in a Father’s care.