Holiday

One Christmas Eve
When Santa got too merry,
He fell off the pogo stick
(or so we were told).

Strange holiday, indeed.
Like snowflakes melting
Into streaks across
A muddy street.

Grandma died at
The Five and Dime
While next in line
For lay-away.

Sweet smells of almond cookies
and pungent whiffs of pine

Andy died in a fire
On New Year's Day
(smoke hung thick
in the frosty air.)

Pretty papers, pretty lights,
All shimmering in the night.


Grandpa died around
Black Friday
(which is why I never
understood the phrase.)

Silent nights
So holy bright
(if only the drummer boys
would be quiet.)

Strange holiday, indeed.
Like the slick and icy hue
Of snow bathed red against
The sun on Winter's eve.

Of Hope and Fear

Hope is a gift
So rarely given,
Mostly hoarded
Like money kept
By proverbial misers
Stuffed beneath a moth eaten
Mattress, turning into
Crumbling remnants of
Dead presidents, smiling
With their inky green
Faces encrusted by
History's lost pages
Where they slowly learned
Each secret handshake
In sullen observance
Of bogus brotherhood
Ruled by its unblinking eye
Floating across the dollar bill and
Filling checkbooks with dim sums
(Dim ditties diddle-dim)
Each figure glaring
Like the tuneless melody
Of St. Anthony's fire
Blazed in a single mind.

Fear is a gift
Freely delivered
Like an invite to a tea party
Behind old Bedlam's walls
Where the end of history
Led to a minor pause
Next to the edge of reason
And the cliff-jumping lads
Took to zip-lining
Across the land
Leaving only a faint trace
Like a human face etched
In the sand
Till high tide
Worked its way.
Just another day at the whaling station
Before the Pequod sailed.

Shenandoah

In the shadow
Of the mountain,
More shadows glide
As hawks and crows,
Crowd against a sun
That's pale and sullen
In a dreary sea
Of mist and sky.

Far in the valley,
Tiny and serene
Lay rolling farms
Like a small train table
In dappled light and
Looking reserved
Like a perfect
Photograph, fixed
And frozen in an
Infinite depth of field.

Then came the rain
And the fog
And a chill that seeped
Through the cabin's walls
And every tree glistened
In the dimming light
Like gossamer wings
Taking flight.

Like a Child Again

As I crossed the steps
To your house
I suddenly felt small,
Like a child again,
Still mystified by a world
Far removed
From simple wonder.

When I was very young,
Each creak of the house
Was like a ghostly presence
Sneaking through dark hallways
Searching for its own
Lost corner.

I learned to bar hop
At the age of five,
Courtesy of my uncle
Who was a legend
From his days as a leather head
(Though I only understood this
Long after he was dead).

Sometimes at my aunt's house
I would sleep in a window's seat
And wake in the morning
With sunlight pressing
Through the frosted glass.

Criss Cross

Withering Christ
Criss cross
Passion imprecise
Hushed confessions
Dim lit rooms
Like a phone booth
Minus loose change
No dimes for sin
No dimes for the sinner
Like a toll booth
Stuck somewhere
Near the gates of Hell
Last hopes near fading
By a rose colored window
Passion imprecise
Like an altar mislaid
Stripped for sacrifice
Withering Christ
Criss Cross
No final words
Just a relic
Packed in ice
While the prayer
Grows exhausted
From the prayer
Like a candle
Near extinction
Sweat vapors
Make fading trails
Amen to night
A final toll
Yet coming
Criss cross
Passion imprecise.