Wednesday, December 24, 2008

Curling Up By The Fire

—Marie J. Ross and Roger E. Naylor, Stockton

Fire roaring on Winter’s Eve
The fireplace crackles in scent of pine.
Before dancing flames, hold a picture...
With hands in warm gloves they cling,
One white lace, other black suede
Holding a photo of their wedding day.

Fire roaring on Winter’s Eve
The Yule tide tree gleams and sparkles
Hung with ornaments of their wedding.
A reflection of love in their eyes,
Bright flickers on their pupils dancing—
Like the snow falling on joyous children.

Fire roaring on Winter’s Eve
Popcorn popping, marshmallows toasting,
Bubbly flowing, cozy couch cuddling.
The picture slipping from hand
Eyes twinkling with lip’s delight
The embers smolder in the fireplace hearth.


Thanks to Marie Ross and Roger Naylor for this collaborative poem, plus two poems from Tom Goff (one inspired by Katy Brown's photo of an angel on last Saturday's post), and responses from Taylor Graham and Mitz Sackman to our Seed of the Week: Light. Well, heck, Tom's second poem is full of light, too—and so is Marie and Roger's! Santa is being kind to us, indeed...

(based on a photo by Katy Brown)
—Tom Goff, Carmichael

The alabaster angel’s a touch concerned,
ambivalently gazing from her perch,
the downward-canted window ledge in church.
Whether her stare is out- or downward, learned
by no onlooker yet; she seems immersed
in gazes, for the universe is her niche,
and orchestras of burning-glasses search
her every inch for gestures, looks, rehearsed
or scant of praise. Yet what is insincere
about her visage? She retorts the cosmic
scrutiny with translucent watchfulness.
Somehow she’s kept her upper wing-curves and face
clean of the dinge that stains flight-feathers and tunic.
Her gaze appears unhesitant, calm and sere:

yet for all the stained-glass’s lights and charms,
she cradles an undisclosed something in soft dark arms.


—Tom Goff

First you were brilliant as the silken dawn
shot with colors peculiar to the silk’s
infolds rinsed in the iridescent milk
of sheer first light. Then, bright as clear green lawn,

raincloud-freshened with curtain-softly-drawn-
back-from-the-proscenium clear flicks
and sweeps of noon-hand color, Northern Flickers
darting across with underwings of fawn

and brown. And now you are the clouds themselves,
laden with blue-gray rain yet capable
of radiance as their sails drink sun and fill.

Soon, sunset amplifications of you delve
the twilit violet-and-dove. Are you a day?
A lifespan? A season? Lovetime, who can say?


—Mitz Sackman, Murphys

Born comes
Year’s dark night
Stars, snow, moon glow
Year’s turning, light comes
New hope grows with the light
New life grows with day’s hope
Christmas, solstice marks the new day
Light grows strong brings joy in renewed life
Possibilities abound and fill us


—Taylor Graham, Placerville

It almost feels like camping out here.
We’re still learning the tricks
of light switch and unfamiliar wood stove.
I unpack candles, old friends’ gifts
scented with blessings.
No candlesticks. I strike a match,
melt a dab of wax, drip it
on the newly-opened lid
of pinto beans; affix a candle
on the silver disk.
Now, to the iron pot
add onion, garlic and chipotle.
Stir it up and let it simmer.
Serve up chili beans in mismatched
bowls. What’s a home-
cooked meal without candlelight?

Today's LittleNip:

Tinsel is really snakes' mirrors.

—Steven Wright