Merry Christmas

Tip tap on the window,
the frost raps
as the wind announces
the induction of winter.
Drops of fluffy white
float down the sky like wisps
of manna--
nourishing our souls,
reminding us that
life, like the flakes, is ephemeral  
and distinct.
The world is preparing
to be re-born, nature  
laboring under a
blanket of frost.  
With one last push  
towards the new year,
the Son is crowned  
and exhales--
warming us for eternity.  
    
Edited from a past poem, L'Hiver

Poems

I wrote this February 9, 1998. I believe this was for a creative writing exercise in college. At the time, I was happily in a relationship so I don't think I had a muse for this, but was trying to do some play on words and see if I could pull it off. Although a bit cheesy, I kind of like the 4th stanza:

The Four Elements of Love

How I dream to be the mighty wind,
To carry the wings of your love,
To whisk you away to far off places,
And anywhere else I dare dream of.

And Oh, to be the placid water,
That from your cup you sip,
To be brought to your glorious mouth,
Feeling the sticky sweet touch of your lips.

Oh, to be the trembling earth,
That lay beneath your feet,
To be the stable ground you rely on,
To have your trust be mine to keep.

But oh! I beg the Lord above,
To let me be a ravishing fire,
For there is nothing that I’d rather be,
Than your very own burning desire.

This one was written in 1997 for an English project:

A is for Apple

Apples fall
briskly from the
careless tree
drizzling an
enormous amount of
fruit in one
gigantic
heap of
indecision.
Just then, a zestful
kite flies
lightly across the sky into the
mass of branches
now no longer bearing apples. The
odious tree, that
plummeted red gems,
quietly imprisons the kite in
revenge and
secures it in a
teasing,
ultra apathetic and
violent
way. Then-- the anti-
xenial plant releases the
young aerodynamic
zestless aircraft to join the heap of victims below.

I wrote the below poem in 10th grade when my best friend and boyfriend started dating. That was a traumatic year for a 15 year old. Although the poetry is dreadful, I really like the clever use of shapes to describe what happened that year:

Shapes

There were four of us,
Two happy couples,
We were thrilled to see,
Our love in doubles.

It was her and him,
And me and you,
Our square was wonderful,
As it was brand new.

Then her and him split,
Yet we still remained,
The three of us were friends,
In happiness uncontained.

Soon we had a triangle,
I had yet to perceive,
Because you and her,
Began to deceive--me.

The triangle formed a nasty circle,
With fighting, and yelling,
What would happen next,
There was no telling.

So now the circle,
Became a single line,
Connecting two points,
And neither point was mine.

You and her connected,
Ignoring the square,
You acted so happy,
Without so much as a care.

Then she cut the line,
You two had to part,
And all of us involved,
Were back at the start.

Now we're all points,
Just floating around,
None are connected,
No shape can be found.

All I ask,
As if you even care,
Is for me, you, her, and him,
To again just be square.

In Remembrance of Steve Cavanaugh

You'll be missed by all.

Remembrance

by Ray Bradbury

And this is where we went, I thought,
Now here, now there, upon the grass
Some forty years ago.
I had returned and walked along the streets
And saw the house where I was born
And grown and had my endless days.
The days being short now, simply I had come
To gaze and look and stare upon
The thought of that once endless maze of afternoons.
But most of all I wished to find the places where I ran
As dogs do run before or after boys,
The paths put down by Indians or brothers wise and swift
Pretending at a tribe.
I came to the ravine.
I half slid down the path
A man with graying hair but seeming supple thoughts
And saw the place was empty.
Fools! I thought. O, boys of this new year,
Why don’t you know the Abyss waits you here?
Ravines are special fine and lovely green
And secretive and wandering with apes and thugs
And bandit bees that steal from flowers to give to trees.
Caves echo here and creeks for wading after loot:
A water-strider, crayfish, precious stone
Or long-lost rubber boot --
It is a natural treasure-house, so why the silent place?
What’s happened to our boys that they no longer race
And stand them still to contemplate Christ’s handiwork:
His clear blood bled in syrups from the lovely wounded trees?
Why only bees and blackbird winds and bending grass?
No matter. Walk. Walk, look, and sweet recall.

I came upon an oak where once when I was twelve
I had climbed up and screamed for my brother to get me down.
It was a thousand miles to earth. I shut my eyes and yelled.
My brother, richly compelled to mirth, gave shouts of laughter
And scaled up to rescue me.
"What were you doing there?" he said.
I did not tell. Rather drop me dead.
But I was there to place a note within a squirrel nest
On which I’d written some old secret thing now long forgot.
Now in the green ravine of middle years I stood
Beneath that tree. Why, why, I thought, my God,
It’s not so high. Why did I shriek?
It can’t be more than fifteen feet above. I’ll climb it handily.
And did.
And squatted like an aging ape alone and thanking God
That no one saw this ancient man at antics
Clutched grotesquely to the bole.
But then, ah God, what awe.
The squirrel’s hole and long-lost nest were there.

I lay upon the limb a long while, thinking.
I drank in all the leaves and clouds and weathers
Going by as mindless
As the days.
What, what, what if? I thought. But no. Some forty years beyond!
The note I’d put? It’s surely stolen off by now.
A boy or screech-owl’s pilfered, read, and tattered it.
It’s scattered to the lake like pollen, chestnut leaf
Or smoke of dandelion that breaks along the wind of time...

No. No.

I put my hand into the nest. I dug my fingers deep.
Nothing. And still more nothing. Yet digging further
I brought forth:
The note.
Like moth wings neatly powdered on themselves, and folded close
It had survived. No rains had touched, no sunlight bleached
Its stuff. It lay upon my palm. I knew its look:
Ruled paper from an old Sioux Indian Head scribble writing book.
What, what, oh, what had I put there in words
So many years ago?
I opened it. For now I had to know.
I opened it, and wept. I clung then to the tree
And let the tears flow out and down my chin.
Dear boy, strange child, who must have known the years
And reckoned time and smelled sweet death from flowers
In the far churchyard.
It was a message to the future, to myself.
Knowing one day I must arrive, come, seek, return.
From the young one to the old. From the me that was small
And fresh to the me that was large and no longer new.
What did it say that made me weep?

I remember you.
I remember you.

Ode to Dawson's Creek (thanks, Rob)

Withering, torrid, tormented soul floating through life just

waiting for the moment

when clarity

will be obtained. Craning neck trying to peek around the next corner knowing that

whatever is next must be better than

what is.

With each step into the future, tears are shed for the past as

whatever is now can never be as good as

what was, and yet

what has not become is

what is

wanted most. Each new discovery is an adventure to be conquered and

with each heartbreak, the end of the

world. Sappy music to cry to as a soundtrack to off balance hormones,

whispers to ignore in a hallway of divas

while trying to master seven subjects in an eight hour day. And still,

what I

wouldn’t give to be fifteen again.

An HR Christmas

Merry Christmas Guys. You'll be missed.


Twas the week before Christmas, and all through suite,
All the HR folks were wondering, what we would have to eat.
Open enrollment was done, with no help from NG,
And we were ready to celebrate our last holiday as a team.

The recruiters were all nestled snug in their chairs,
While Edith and Amy worked on Benelogic nightmares.
And Teri in her office and I back from a meeting,
We all silently prepared for more employees to be leaving.

When out in the lobby there arose such a clatter,
Danny jumped from his cube to see what was the matter.
Away to my window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the blinds, knocking over my trash.

The shine on the marble from the newly waxed floor,
Shone in the lobby all the way to the door.
When what to my wandering eyes should we all see,
But our very own HRL, beckoning his eight loyal employees.

“Now Bruce! Now Bobbe!
Now Edith and Amy!
On Teri and Michelle!
On Debbi and Danny!
Out of the office!
Out of these halls!
Now dash away! Dash away!
Dash away all!”

With jackets in hand, and purses too,
We grabbed our gifts and away we flew,
We raced down route 50, we left with a bang,
Eager to start our last Christmas as the Gang.

We arrived at Michelle’s, our drive came to an end,
As we relished our time that we had left to spend.
But before we could start our joyous festivities,
In walked our leader, the jolly HRL, Charlie!

He was dressed for the winter, from his head to his feet,
And he was cursing under his breath something about NG.
A bundle of advice he was about to give with fervor,
To give to us all before we parted forever.

“Always be sure to do what is right,
Because if you do, you will never lose a fight.
Make sure you also learn to accept NG,
Because they’re who we are now, and not what we used to be.

I’m thankful to be blessed with such a great crew,
And I know that I am only as good as each of you.
I want you to know that this team will be missed,
But we all have new opportunities since being purchased!”

So for one final time, we shared and we laughed,
Remembering past memories spent as Charlie’s staff.
And we knew in our hearts our friendships would last,
Which made it easier to look forward and not in the past.

Then when we were finished, Charlie sprang to his car,
And prepared for the long drive, because Frederick was far.
We said our goodbyes, our last Christmas was through,
We were all quite surprised how fast the years had flew.

And Charlie waved from the window as he drove into the night,
But before he could get completely out of sight,
I heard him exclaim as he was never nonplussed,
“Remember gang – let’s do it to them, before they do it to us!”

Writing off the Subject

That blue speckled cat
walking the steamy concrete ledge
is following his whiskers
to the ocean
where sailboats trickle
across the fragile water,
masts stretching to the sky
full of marshmallows, angels' wings,
and cotton
that grows in dusty fields
so hot that the sun
cracks open the
dirt and ants peek in to see crumbs
left from a picnic
with soda crackers
and orange cheese
and lemonade
squeezed by a fat, sweaty woman
in the early morning
as the rooster crows to start the day.

L'Hiver (second edit)

Tip tap on the window,
the frost raps
as the breeze proclaims
the inauguration of winter.
Drops of fluffy white
ooze down the sky like wisps
of manna--
nourishing our souls,
reminding us that
life, like flakes, is transient.
Instead, we persevere
struggling to preserve
our distinctive identity
until inevitably
the warm breath of spring exhales,
melting us into the
pool of Eternity.