the only thing better
than knowing we’ve helped the earth
just a tad
with our fresh cut tree
is coming home
from a long day at work
to a house
with a lingering smell of pine.
beliefs
Music
the leaves left from fall
dance across our patio,
their crisp skeletal skins skidding
to the howling background hymn.
this same howling harmony
danced across the road today,
beating me down to my bones
as i pushed toward a quieter tune.
trapped inside a fluorescent prison,
i couldn’t quite find the melody
that with a few angry notes
the wind whipped out of me.
perhaps you stand somewhere
on the other side of the sky,
unable to hear the song i sing
amidst the howling, haunting music.
Writing My Bike
it came to me in the summer.
Writing My Bike:
this should be the name of my new blog.
will i only write when i ride?
will i only ride when i write?
winter’s creeping in
with bitter cold mornings
that make my pedals run stiffly,
my layered legs tight with frost,
my mittened hands gripping
the first wisps of light on early mornings.
He may try, but Jack Frost can’t deter me.
i’ll be writing my bike to the top
of a mountain in May (racing a train),
and i need these legs to pedal me
through everything that will come
between now and then.
Advent
we’re counting down
and can’t even begin
without a fight.
the felt openings
hold only mini ornaments
this year, no candy.
we’re trying to cut back,
though you can’t seem
to understand why.
this should be the advent
of happiness. perhaps
we can reinvent ourselves
and come, reborn, tomorrow.
Christmas Morning
it is what it is
whether you accept it or believe it
(me, neither)
a consumer’s holiday
propped up
with bells and music
church visits
and nativity scenes.
we lie to them
from birth.
somehow,
with enough eggnog amaretto
and song after song
gift after gift
we buy into
this charade,
inundating another generation
of false generosity.
Thanksgiving’s over.
Let’s shed ourselves
of the one truly American holiday
and head to the mall
where we can be
the sickening
self-absorbed
Americans we have all come
to love, come
Christmas morning.
Thanksgiving
i am better at this
just as you taught me
hand over hand
hand over arm
hand on hand
hand on arm
and now you?
calm as a summer breeze
in the midst of frigid temps
cradling them
in the layers of love
that were missing
from my childhood.
instead i’ll stand here
mashing my angst into potatoes
dicing up boiled eggs
slicing perfect candied yams
doing everything you taught me
and more.
the table is set.
the kitchen is spotless.
my children are loved.
and i should be so thankful
that i know how to do
all that i know how to do.
Steam
my pies are filled with
fresh cranberries
Colorado apples
King Arthur flour
pastry cream
fresh chilled butter
sinful sugar
decadent chocolate
and perfect recipes.
i wish i could fill these pies with the
muscles i took to pound them
time it took to bake them
dishes piled up in the sink
farmers’ market filled with apples
bog where they harvested cranberries
with the
ache that fits in between the
layers of fruit and cream
the ache that won’t escape
from the lattice-topped steam.
Muse
just as we found our muse
young as youth with words would allow
you have crept back into my life
and reminded me of passion.
it may dissipate like water
evaporating onto the lid of a pan
but the lid, the lid is solid
and will gather up the drops
release them back to where they belong
back to you, to me, to the youth
we all have within us, the words
escaping from our passionate mouths
like butterflies emerging from the chrysalis
reborn into the enthralling joy
that we once knew, that we will always have
with words, with words, with our muse.
Au Revoir
you may as well be a ghost
because you’ve haunted me more than most.
why do i have to see you here
when i’m surrounded by holiday cheer?
you’re embarrassed, though you won’t admit it
it is not my sin that you committed.
if you disliked the person you came to know
then why did you put on such a show?
i don’t edit, though it’s caused me pain
at least i’m real; you’re filled with shame.
perhaps those who love me are few and far
but at least i know how to say au revoir.
The Theatre
We stand in tights, leggings, skirts,
a tie and jacket, dolled up as much as
our fellow theatre-goers
waiting for the train.
Our breaths form miniature clouds
as they enter the humid night air.
We shuffle our feet, clap our hands,
pull up our hoods, rejoice at the lights
of the train curving around the tracks.
Everyone says, How old are they?
Going to the theatre? Shrek tonight?
Beautiful girls, beautiful, beautiful girls.
As we stand clutching the pole, no room.
It couldn’t be better. The pictures we took
(soon to be Christmas cards), the lipstick
now smearing across their cheeks,
the laugh-your-ass-off musical of our dreams.
Four, six, almost eight, I tell them.
They say it only gets better. But how can it
be better than this? Dinner at a local restaurant,
riding the train downtown, the theatre,
three little, little girls as proud as new parents?
We’ll see. For now, I take their tiny hands in mine,
dash through the tunnel with lights that
ring at their anxious pats, their pink jackets
and polka-dot tights reminding me of the youth
we all have within us, the youth, the love we crave.
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