Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas to all! I am so thankful to have you as friends. Hope I spread a little cheer with this blog--perhaps it would be better though with a little nog. As I peruse my old and new poems, I see a dark side to many. Most have a spirit of optimism that is underlain in the poems. OOps, I promised not to go over to the dark side in this blog. Maybe I am not as reflective in my manic moments and don't have time to write them down because I am having to much fun. Perhaps, you have helped me to record that state of happiness. The following is the best I can do.
This poem was inspired by the beautiful Picea orientalis 'Skylands' which must be in full sun to be the best, brightest gold. Let's all get out into the full light--we become the best we are.
On Christmas day
I will plant one tree for you
One spruce for me
So when we are old
We can lay in the moss
Under the shade of gold
No fear of banks lost
Reaped riches untold
This musing is from the Moss Diaries , an unfinished book of mine. It seems appropriate at Christmas time, although I think it works all the time.
I went to visit the old moss man. I asked him to teach me the meaning of unconditional love. He said there is no such thing for a male. I thought this could be true for he was a wise man, all wrinkled. I lived with my wife for twenty years. I observed her bleeding many times for her children. She was always there for me in things that you do not have to vow to do any more, like sickness and health and poverty of spirit. There were times when she did not come to me and I would still take my pleasure.
One time I gave her a beautiful jewel wrapped in gold tissue. The present gave her joy and laughter. She gave me nothing in return but the kiss of her smile. It was then that I learned unconditional love, for I did not get anything back, yet I was completely and happily satisfied. I think the moss man was wrong. A man is capable of unconditional love. Sometimes it just takes a while to learn it. And from my experience, it must be learned, practiced, and relearned.
Perhaps there is no one crazier proud than a grandparent. My daughter, Alisa and I with baby Maisy on the top, were standing carts opposed in Costco talking. All of the sudden this lady stops to admire Maisy and pulled out her pictures of her new grandson at the same time. "Oh, they would make a beautiful couple." You get my drift?
What could you say of hell
One would perhaps brimstone smell
The chimnea embers danced hot
Butter on the skillet gone forgot
Could it be as they say
A presence never to visit or stay
I know the beauty of today
Heaped up around us lay
Sad never to hear see joy
Being grandparents to a baby girl or boy
This last poem is what your friendship gives me.
Finding Home In Winter
Why must I always be the slave in irons
Indentured to the lust for life
So rich with fat minestrone stew
Wanting and wanting and wanting
The green is not buried in some root cellar
I roll on a mattress of hundred dollar bills
Sleep for an old man in this dark season
Love can only be the reason
When life is the rain rushing stream
And there is no meaning but the flow
I will let it carry me past snowy places
Where I see only friends faces
I am out of the dark cold gone home