Winter Moment

In the sudden, sultry stickiness

that is the South

walking down Maple Street

weather like pea soup

awaiting change

Christmas carols have faded out

reaching for lyrics

now to match the mood

of a north wind soon to howl

somber days

black, cold nights

untouchable dreams

that vanish

on the cusp of uncertainity

it’s winter now

wearing a white cloak

reality swinging wide

like a vast, unchained secret

Wrapping Up the Season

Another Christmas has come to an end, but hopefully the spirit that is truly intended for this season will ignite one day and saturate the world. One of my favorite seasonal songs is Someday at Christmas by Stevie Wonder which was also made into a television commercial, expressing the sentiment nicely:

Someday all our dreams will come to be
Someday in a world where men are free
Maybe not in time for you and me
But someday at Christmastime

Meanwhile, my local community spreads goodwill by maintaining the Fantasy of Lights exhibition that began here in the 1950s by a man, Mr. Burns, who grew up as an impoverished youth and never had lights or Christmas trees. As he began his oil company and profited from it, he set up a few outdoor displays in his yard and gradually increased those year by year. He did this so that children would have something to see and enjoy during the season. The display is now managed by the local university and has been expanded by various companies and organizations. The homes in this neighborhood also display exquisite lighting such as huge trees outlined in cascades of lights and lighted ornaments. It is a wonderful place for all people to go and reflect upon this time of the year regardless of whether they celebrate Christmas or not. It is the perfect spot to consider the magnitude of generosity and the goal to attain the glorious gift of world harmony.

Another song, an oldie but a goodie is the Royal Guardsman’s Snoopy’s Christmas,where yes, none other than the adorable Snoopy takes on the Red Baron in a real dogfight:

The Baron made Snoopy fly to the Rhine 
And forced him to land behind the enemy lines 
Snoopy was certain that this was the end 
When the Baron cried out, “Merry Christmas, my friend”

Although Christmastime did not serve to end the conflict of Snoopy and the Red Baron, “they knew they would meet another day,” the bells ringing below reminded them of bringing peace to the world and good will to man.

The 70 degree weather has vanished here giving away first to blustering winds, sideways rain, then a bit of snow.  Winter arrived with an attitude.  

The Sprite on the Sill

There is a well known tiny elf

that we shall call a sprite

to avoid the little intracacies

known as copyright

This little brownie, I am told,

is quite the controversy

He takes up residence in your house

and reports what he does see

The precocious, self-important little gnome

crashes the party, takes over your home

He sits precisely on a ledge observing moments

when he has a story, to Santa then he vents

Telling tales on Cindy Lou, Bobby and

little Andy Dole

That mean, small gnome ruins Xmas eve

as they all get coal

The sprite’s actions have been much maligned

hanging out on that sill…

those threats and tattling touted now as bad

parenting skill

The gnome catches children in their weakest time

a little slip up there

like tattling, yelling, copying

and a small evil stare

All the while, he’s boss of the house

and he did replace

all the family framed photos

with his impish face!

He even caused a 911 call, an accident for fear

when a little girl knocked him down

thinking Xmas might disappear

He ran copies of his image from the

home computer one day

and stuck one right in the center of

granny’s Xmas tray

He dressed in Barbie’s clothing

missing a few moments on the sill

I thought about a candy infraction,

just a few to steal…

We aren’t talking Herself the Elf, but indeed

something more sinister

and if you’re asking me,

he’s one little mean mister

After the holidays, he will make haste to go

back to the Toy Shop in the great

Land of the Snow

Next year, it would be fine

if the Imp on the Ledge would pass us

and take up next door with the family Bore

and their doberman named Lazarus

Where the Story Goes...

Perchance when the story comes

it will be too large to tell

melting into uncharted oblivion

smirking like a wayward imp

melancholy writer laboring

chasing the end

finding the lost along the way

only to be singed

intermittently patching that story

with mystical fabric

the tale winds around a circuitous route

the omniscient voice deciding

lovelorn or love lost?

the plot treads

between two worlds

crossing into the unknown

the Muse smiles

then scampers off into the moonlit night

the plot escalates

then decides to fall

perhaps there is

no story at all….

Looking Homeward

My father’s younger brother

followed him into World War II

like a pesky little brother would

ready to do his part

ready to make his mark

These two blonde, blue-eyed boys

one year apart in age

Uncle Dail followed my father

down the dirt roads

that they drove sometimes too fast

from a place where time lay easy

fields spread out in a place

harboring more sand than trees

They left the small farm

with perfect rows of beans

a blackberry orchard

and a grapevine that made

small sour grapes

no matter the careful tending

of my grandmother’s slender hands

in the middle of this still world

they left for chaos

Uncle Dail was

not old enough to go

when he signed up for the Navy

there my grandmother stood

broken hearted

twirling her auburn hair

natural highlights of golden honey

hands nervously smoothing her apron

tears welling up in her green eyes

as a mad man raged

as a mad man fumed

on a mad mission

of mad hate

to change the world order

My Uncle Dail

slight gap in his front teeth

with his All American boy smile

determined and good looking

but he had to keep up

with my father

Evenings found my grandmother

writing furious letters

the Department of Defense

“checking into the matter”

and not caring much

for that war must be won

relegating combat now

to the farmers

Off they went

my father and uncle

on two different ships

My grandmother picking up

her crochet needle

halfway around the world

Loud she was

in her criticism of war

her only two sons

now both gone

My father on board

the USS Ticonderoga

My uncle off to Europe

both coasting upon

the destiny of the seas

Uncle Dail mastered the camera

both from behind and in front

documented his adventure

sent his mother poetry

I see kids now

that won’t stand for the pledge

and they tell me

history is useless

Are they freaking kidding me?

I tell them

ordinary people make history

write it too

Uncle Dail was on board

big ships, giant crashing waves

sea storms while

airplane strips cleared for landing

Forces aligned, the Allies rallied

with the emergence

of these fresh-faced American kids

called to defend

proud to defend

way back in another era

before detachment

and eroded family values

Uncle Dail sent

home his letters and cards

teased my grandfather’s politics

My grandmother engulfed

in each correspondence

sitting on the screened-in porch

her copper colored tresses

gleaming in the sun

her elegant fingers caressing

the envelopes

praying for safe returns

In the middle of it all

on the USS Ticonderoga

my father figured

his weekly pay

the distance to and from

this port and that one

went to the ship’s shows

made photos with

blonde Hawaiian girls

all was quiet

D Day came and went

my Uncle Dail

sailing those mystical seas

fortunate for no hits

filed to go home for leave

back to the farm

with the beans and berries

Then somehow in a car

on his way home

all adventure ended there

like James Dean

on a road

with a hitchiker

My grandmother was never

the same after that

this ironic life to blame

she had to face that flag drapped coffin

after all

I held her hand

long after those

two little boys

put their little hands in hers

I held her hand

when her fingers turned knobby

with age, her eyes grew dimmer

but there was still some fiery copper

in her hair

She would tell of these moments

as her thoughts strayed down

one of those dirt roads

when I was her youngest

tomboy granddaughter

on an isolated farm

where the blackberry vines still bloomed

and the grapes stayed a little bit sour

“And how do you like

your blue-eyed boy now,

Mr. Death?”

This entry was posted on December 9, 2015, in Poetry, Poetry Tribute, Uncategorized and tagged American Soldiers, creative writing, death, e.e. cummings, loss, Navy, poetry, spoken word poetry, story, story telling, United States, Winston Churchill, World War II.