December - Poem 25

No Speech After Sundown  / Kate Bowers

For Roseann

“These are called helicopters” you said smiling
When I brought my latest treasure to you,
Tiny green boomerangs found
in the grass of the side yard

Near the woods and so curvy against my small hand.
“They are seeds and grow into big trees—maples or elms
—if you plant them.”

I too have grown big enough now to admire how they fall,
Spinning silently to the earth in a pinwheel shape,
Unlike the sudden plummeting of the acorn,
  the echo of its vertical bounce.

No speech after sundown, you taught me.
Let the night birds take up singing then.
Wait for their pause
just before dawn,

The quiet cast at the 3 a.m. hour
On the edge of grey light seeping forward,
Like the dampness of the grass
now around the cuffs of your shoes.

Rise then and cover your hair before walking the corridor 

Quietly to the front of the house, the east wing,

And sing the Gayatri once there, all the mudras,

and again 

Until the light breaks fully, not just the bright clouds

Among the fingers of the sun
through the trees.

Let the day-birds join in, the hole nesters with their news.

Walk out across the porch as their song rises
above your own.

Look up through the maples and the pines,

The Hickory counting its days full of nests.
Open your eyes

To the Hawthorne against the garage,

The Holly sentineled
| to the left of the front door.

Let the day’s light fall about you where you stand.
Lean against my oak.

Dining on my Discontent / Katie Collins

The sky is falling
Can you feel the clouds?
Wading through the water system
Hoping the Milky Way is still intact
Will space hurl itself down on top of me?
Swallowing small disasters,
Child’s play.
Swallowing galaxies?
I still count the calories at communion.

Stopping by the bookstore that closed fourteen years ago / Ellen Ferguson

Stopping by the bookstore that closed fourteen years ago
There wasn’t much of a selection
Pathetic excuse for an excuse
That it’s not there any more

Meeting you at grand central
Where the clock used to be
Happened forty years ago
Over hugs over now

Serving the seven fishes
Last night to a rather small crowd
They still added up to seven
While the empty chairs numbered eight

Nothing really matters
Meaning, nothing: it really matters
Everyone reads it all wrong
Everything’s found in what’s gone

Christmas Mouse   / Chris Fong Chew

Pine needles pile onto the forest floor
As a mouse comes running right through the door
The warmth by the fireplace too tempting a chance 
The family gathered by the flames all in a trance 

As the flame settle to embers the soft glow warms
The mouse is sneaking around the furniture arms
The heat of the house warms up it’s bones 
An escape from the outside, the great unknown 

It is on this fateful Christmas night 
That the mouse came running just out of sight 
The family distracted by the glowing logs  
Tonight  the mouse could stay out of the bogs

Away from the hawks that preyed from the sky 
Away from the wolves who always came by 
Away from the chill of the winter snow 
Away from the dangers that winter sews 

And so it settled under the sofas legs 
The warmth of the fire, as tonight begs 
For a new beginning, away from the cold 
This field mouse turned house mouse, a story untold. 

The Guest of Honor / Davis Hicks

Amid the little lights shining,
between tinsel and so many plastic placements,
see the way the sun
still rose through reaching arms.
Beyond the snowmen and santa statues
cans overflow with the evidence of the boxed-binged,
just next to the still-blooming mums.
Celebration bleeds into purchase,
red into green,
even as the gatherings
of the scarlet-songs develop 
their slow and sweeping melodies
through the halls
of the holy homes.

Witness the gentle silence
in the odd and the off-center,
wild winter weeds swaying in the chilled breeze,
the opposite of palm leaves.
They remind me of us.
In houses acting as homes, bodies huddle
around the glowing tree,
that pyre surrounded
with the wild and the color-wrapped.
And yet, as we do,
I remember the purple of wine,
the pale starchy yellows of the bread,
And know as I know the date
that He
is here.

5 / Victor Barnuevo Velasco

I’d rather not leave
behind words
but those you will

find useful: kneecaps
and leg bones you
can turn into canes

for walking. Fingers
to dig roots to boil
for fever and cold.

Hair to weave
into blankets
for stormy nights.

Skin to stretch
as roof to keep
you safe and well.

I give you all
these as gifts
not because they

are precious but
because they are real.
They are mine.

Everything I Need / Jen Wagner

In my small town. 
In the middle of nowhere. 
In the middle of a hill. 
Halfway between my home and everything I need. 
There is a street sign
And it bears your last name. 

I drive past it at least once per week.
Yesterday, I drove past it twice in a single afternoon. 
The universe won’t let me forget you. 
How strange. 
Your name. 
And the street sign that carries it. 

Going to the grocery store?
I pass your sign. 
When I need gas?
I see your name.
You follow me through every single
Mundane task. 
And I know it’s there. 
I don’t avoid it. 
And still after all this time
My heart flutters as I approach. 
Much the same way it would 
If you came toward me. 
In anything other than a daydream. 

So I think of you.
Often.
Or…
At least twice a week.
For no reason,
Other than a simple street sign
That exists between me 
And 
Everything. 
I.
need. 

Pretending / Stacy Walker

She pretends to be patient,
Driven by her values,
Strong in her boundaries,
Soft in her love.

She acts as if
She’s calm and collected,
Able to take the heat
And keep cool.

She imitates someone
Clear in her convictions,
Measured and fair,
Honest above all else.

I watch her and wonder,
How long
She can keep up the charade
Before the truth comes out.

But then I see her
Through the eyes of her child,
And know this version of me
Is the best I have
And who I’m longing to be.