A Christmas legend

On the top shelf of my closet, 

our old ceramic Christmas tree 

sits tight for winter.

Come December,  always one of us 

coaxes it down from cramped repose,

clears a place on our buffet 

and directs the tree to burst 

into color--to shine its many tiny bulbs 

on our patch of earth one more year, 

to let every single bulb release 

all it can and light up continents 

on our burdened  souls. 

I don't know why or how 

I lost my hold but our heirloom 

tumbles like a bird shot from

the sky and in a flash of color 

I see Christmas past, 

I see the future as a memory, 

I see a Christmas legend 

being born. 

Syllables

For a time, I think nothing. 

Nothing at all.

None of the usual syllables

come to call

like  pan dem ic 

like au tis m

like wi dow 

And so I know nothing 

for a time--for a blessed morning, 

until unwanted syllables 

do their jack in the box 

trick again 

and more than ever, I want 

a church to join or at least 

a new plot to work on 

so now I muscle all that 

into a poem 

because poems are homes 

for unwanted syllables  

like ach ing 

like strug gle

but also for the wanted 

like o cean

like ba sil

like mer cy.  

Will he hit me back?

I hit him and freeze. 

I have never hit him before 

but I've wanted to

hit him for months,

my boy now 

     tall as me.

Hairy and hooded, mumbling, 

he turns his back on me but

teachers keep calling, 

he's not zooming, 

keeps lying, 

mouthing off, 

    dropping f-bombs. 

Will he hit me back? 

Wondering, waiting to be hit back, 

I see a shy boy flicker 

cross his face but

it is just a flicker 

like a light bulb 

     about to die.