Blissfully Blank

Christmas is packed away,

and the house has

a spartan elegance now,

a comfortable simplicity,

with clean countertops,

bare walls,

empty corners,

easy floors.

It has

no clutter,

no expectations,

no excess,

no concessions to tradition.

It’s just a homey place to rest,

a haven for relaxing,

a place to catch your breath.

It’s a blissfully blank canvas,

open to hopeful changes, and

ready for a new year’s blessings.

The Seasonal

Today, I’ll put up Christmas,

The red, the green, the gold –

The beauty and clutter of

Family things –

Treasure turned tradition.

Santa pillow from Mamaw Brown

Horse and sleigh for cards,

A candy cane I stuffed and sewed the

Year we first got married.

Nativity scene from Prof and Ozelle,

Santas made by Dad,

Nanny’s crocheted angel,

Nesting dolls from Steve.

The furry brown dog

Who sits on the couch and

Barks his Christmas carols,

The noisy old Santa

With cymbals and drum

From Nola Jean and Pinky.

Kevin’s cedar snowman,

Stockings for each child,

A pine cone basket laced with light,

Lisa’s silver candles.

I’ll look one more time –

Did I miss anything?

Some holiday straggler who

Still wants to stay?

I’ll pack it away,

In part, to ensure

The dear regard we

Save for the Seasonal.

Moving the Mouse

“Whose turn is it?”

“It’s mine.  I’m sure.”

“No!  You moved it last!”

“I’ll just move it for you.”

So goes their playful banter,

A yearly planned regression –

Adults becoming children,

Eager to move the mouse.

He heralds yule excitement –

The quick-slow coming of Christmas –

Of presents, fun and family,

Of warmth and love and light.

Certain Sacrifice

A child-made stocking,

A “special-bought” card,

A gift, unexpected, that

Loudly says, “I know you.”

These are joys of Christmas,

Times that turn your heart,

Things that speak of Christ,

Most certain Sacrifice.

Angels in the Night

Lights and fog and darkness.

The result?  Manmade halos!

A Christmas Eve reminder of

Angels in the night.

Oh, that we could see them –

The always-here-but-hidden,

Those messengers of God,

Our audience/protectors.

Christmas Radio (a haiku)

Christmas radio –

Variations on a theme:

Our Savior is born!

Cover us all

We have smelled up close the

Breath of the darkness;

We’ve seen the cave blackness of

Life without Light.

We’ve felt its blind fury –

Its utter irration,

Its vicious indifference,

Its inhuman stare –

Launched on young ones,

On lovers of young ones,

On innocence, trust and

On its own mother.

Radiant Jesus,

Shine ever brighter –

Oh, how we crave You –

Cover us all.



(Dedicated to the victims of the Sandy Hook shooting) 

Compelled

Tragedy.

Why do we watch it, over and over?

Why can we not turn away from the screen?

Do we think we can translate?

Uncode the unthinkable?

Crack grim reality?

Find the truth’s flaw?

Can we fix anguished faces?

Pray them God’s graces?

Those strangers, like family, breathe our same air.




(Dedicated to the victims of the Sandy Hook shooting)

The Box

Traditions, you don’t comfort me.

I’m constrained, not contented, by

Your yearly boxed appearance, and my

Annual unpacking of the

Things we’ve always done.

I’d welcome some change, or

Fresh contents, or

At least an examination of

How you got here in the first place, and

Why you’re never questioned and

What’s beyond the box.

Little Dog

Sad little dog, just

Sitting on the pavement –

Nothing much to do but

Watch the cars go by.

Not a yard to play in,

Not a bone to crunch –

A tail that doesn’t wag, and

Lonely, empty eyes.

Lacking

Muted bell,

Gloved applause,

Gloomy light,

Grounded bird –

Wasted time,

Flameless fire,

Untouched feast,

Silent song –

Such is the

Nature of

Shallow thanks,

Lacking appreciation.

Maker of Home

I always hang it first:

The Mrs. Claus in felt –

Crafted by my cousins,

Children of Aunt Betty.

Christmas-red dress,

Soft scalloped apron,

Pear-shaped body,

Poofy white hair.

Steady blue eyes,

Cheery pink smile,

Holly leaf pocket,

Rounded black boots.

She’s kind and patient, and

There for her loved ones –

A keeper of laughter,

A crafter of fun.

I want to be like her, and

Like my Aunt Betty –

A baker of cookies,

A maker of home.

It's a germy world out there

It’s a germy world out there –

Money,

Toilet seats,

Faucets

and –

Styluses!  (They expect you to pick them up and write with them,

                                                right there in the sick-folks pharmacy!)

Elevator buttons,

Keyboards,

Door handles

and –

Hands!  (They’re thrust at you everywhere, especially at church!  To refuse them is

                                                rude; to receive them, sure exposure.)

Potlucks,

Salad bars,

Tables, chairs

and –

Plates!  (They’re handled by employees, with thumbs around the edges, sometimes

                                                held up high, right under breathing faces!)

Stair rails,

Remote controls,

Light switches

and –

Doctors’ offices!!!  (The absolute worst!  They’re sanitized battlefields,                                                  contagion conference sites!)

It’s a germy world out there.  (Now go wash your hands.)

Trophies

We bring them home like trophies for quick-life consumers,

Awarded to the busy, the ones who sip and travel –

Starbucks, McAllister’s:  those are the favorites,

Frequently won by the haste of our schedule,

Cups for a spot on the top of our counter,

Shiny refills to go and go. . .

Peace of Art

Quiet confidence.

It comes with seeking a skill,

With stretching normal patience,

With slow, rhythmic stitches in predictable patterns,

With the steadily earned hope of pleasing accomplishment,

With each ordered turn of the purposed yarn becoming more than its single self –

A perfectly tangled peace of art.

The Farm

 

Perfect biscuits, chocolate cookies,

Giant turkeys, country ham,

Barbecue, apple butter,

Oyster dressing, peach cobbler –

Something’s always cooking when we go to the farm.

Honey bees, golden corn,

Roma beans, ripe tomatoes,

Lilac bush, purple iris,

Knockout rose, pink mimosa –

Something’s always growing when we go to the farm.

Long flat walks, homemade music,

Shotgun tourneys, Chevy rides,

Dusty truck trips, rolling tractors,

Playful kittens, pond fishing –

Something’s always happening when we go to the farm.

Open doors, steady welcome,

Reconnection with the homeplace,

Catching up, slowing down,

Peace inside, Love around –

It’s what we always find when we go to the farm.

Memorial to the Maples

We’ll miss you, sugar maples, and

Your colorful displays,

Your framing of the farmhouse,

Your constance as a landmark.

You watched us play, as children,

‘Neath your friendly branches.

You cooled us with your shade;

You held us as we climbed.

You heard our family chatter,

You watched us come and go –

We grew, and you grew with us,

Putting down strong roots.

You welcomed in the seasons;

You weathered all extremes.

You reached toward God with tree grace –

We’ll miss you, sugar maples.

Keepsake

She’s cradled by a quilt

She can’t remember making –

Bits of lovely fabric

She cut and stitched with care.

In another lifetime,

(Then someone same, but different),

She used her art and skill

To make a treasured keepsake.

How could she have known

How much she’d one day need it –

An obvious reminder

Of who she was and is?

Sundogs

I saw sundogs today –

Twin pets of fire and light,

Strolling with their owner,

One on either side.

Chunks of rarest rainbow

On a short, taut leash –

Wagging colored tails

For anyone who's looking.

Blue Hole

Blue hole cut in a

Deep gray sky,

Lined by gold on a

Late November day:

Is it long-awaited light

Or dark portended storm, or

Just a piece of Question

Loved by the sunset?

 

The Big One

 

Thank God for the big one –

Still waiting in the water.

He brings me back again.

He makes my fishing hopeful.

I see him, wet and brown,

His belly yellow-orange, or

Slick and silver-hued,

His side just full of rainbow!

He shows himself sometimes;

He taunts me as I cast –

A rising invitation,

Always out of reach.

I’m waiting for that day,

That pic where we both smile,

That time, when, on the river,

I thank God for the big one.

I go

I don’t allow myself to go there very often –

that place where I’ve never heard those three big words,

            “You have cancer,”

that place where health isn’t really an issue,

where every decision isn’t altered by disease,

where the future stretches out all

            smooth and happy-normal,

where I enjoy weddings and

            grandkids and anniversaries and

            retirement with my husband,

where I don’t wonder if I’ll be replaced, and

            I never script my own funeral,

that place where I don’t know chronic pain and

            think about recurrence,

where insurance is not a tightrope,

            just a monthly obligation,

where cancer only happens to other people and

            it isn’t in their eyes every time they look at me,

that place where needle sticks are rare and

            side-effects unknown –

I know I can’t stay there.

I don’t go there often.

But I go.

The Very Best

Breathing in steam,

Blowing it cooler –

Basking, my hands, in the

Warmth of the mug

Gauging the temp with

Each soothing sip, and

Courting the cup,

Accepting its comfort

Waiting and wooing,

Relaxing, undoing –

Of a cup of hot tea,

That’s the very best part.

I love a rainy day

I love a rainy day,

Gently blown by wind,

Steady-dripping eaves,

Drop-spattered panes.

I love the moving patio,

Circles – growing, gone,

Swishy-quick road wetness,

Sprayed by sparkling cars.

I love the messy puddles,

Brightened, thirsty grass,

Cool, fragrant mud –

Black, a little chancy.

I love the just-washed air,

Moist and sweet to lungs,

The steady hum on roof, and

Stripey lines out windows.

Unexpected views,

Changes in agenda,

Sameness shaken up –

I love a rainy day.

The Take

Struggling down the bank,

Pushing through one turbine,

Navigating weedbeds –

The best spots taken!

Settling for the fringes,

Making hopeful casts,

Pondering which fly will

Best entice the big one.

Waiting for the interest,

Watching for a rise,

Praying for some action –

Please, God, a fish.

Thrilling at the take,

Feeling tug on line,

Pulling in the brown –

This one, a fighter!

There, in my hand,

A piece of wild river,

Flashing, alive, and

Mine for this moment.

Then back to the water,

Both brown trout and line,

To capture what’s special –

Illumined time.

Many Waters

We fished awhile today, and

Walked in many waters –

Lost Creek,

Childer’s Creek,

(Hiwassee possibilities),

Deep pools at

Coker Creek,

(Has anybody been there?),

The Yellow on Starr Mountain,

The Clinch,

(Inconsistent),

Rushing streams at

Greenbriar,

(Brookies in the Smokies),

Scenic Little River,

(Too cold now, or soon),

Legendary Citico,

(Hard to find the outlet),

Beaver Kill, and

Parksville,

Ocoee #1,

The bridge at 411,

(Walk up, and then

wade down).

We fished awhile today,

Got caught in many waters –

Rivers of the mind,

Where fish swim

All the time.

The Extra

 

 

What happied my birthday,

52, female?

What made the ordinary

More like the “extra”?

Mysterious packages,

Morning openings,

Cards funny/heartfelt,

Picked out with care.

Tennessee notecards,

Honey bee things,

Thoughtful items from

People who know me.

A lingering bath –

No hurry, no rush –

An omelet so special, with

Pepper, cheese, onions.

Dark chocolate with breakfast?

Yes, I think so, and

Lady Grey tea,

Sweetened with honey.

Fun facebook greetings,

So many, so kind,

Joggers of memories,

Small reconnections.

A fan installed, the

Present of work,

Blades whisper-quiet,

New in our bedroom.

Fishing the river,

Wading one turbine,

Seeing a friend,

Talking to family.

 

Pizza, a movie,

(Even a Coke!),

Homemade brownies,

Aroma of chocolate.

Surprises continued,

A cake, some cookies,

A soft scarf to warm and

Stretch birthday pleasure.

Reminders, all, of the

Beauty of time,

God’s Gift daily,

Not just on birthdays.