December Poems

December Challenge

Day 1   

Blustery Day

Le vent souffle en bourrasques

It’s a blustery day, my head full of cotton

clouds and blue skies, lies

you once told have blown away like leaves

that died in November. Now we lie

under a maple, listening to the sap run

against our beating hearts. Tell me sweet

that you will stay. Le vent souffle en bourrasques

my darling; hold me close and stay.

Day 2   

Math

I taught myself

to read upside down, backwards

to level the field

between me and the teacher

sitting smug and prim

at her desk, grade book open.

Manufactured question

on my lips just to get a look,

I was quick and accurate.

I lived at the end of the alphabet,

last student on the page —

finding myself was easy,

finding my numbers 

at the bottom, mentally adding, 

calculating my average. Guess 

I was actually better

at math 

than I got credit for being. 

Day 3 

Missing

The chair is not moved

but it moves; small

breaths in the room move it

as if you were still

here with me. I am careful

when I pass it, wondering

if today you will appear.

I look just askance, lids

lowered to block the light

from the window. In half-dark

I swear I see you lowering

yourself to the seat, settling

in to read. What was that last

book you chose, thumbed

through like a hungry child?

Your chair is still

in the same corner, rocking

back and forth when evening comes,

though you don’t make a sound.

Day 4

Gains

I am more

than the more I thought

to become, more than

the slightness I saw

in the mirror at 17.

I have carried more

than I asked to carry

when I waited for you

to be born. Gaining is un-

welcome for some, un-

expected add-ons weigh

a person down if not

firmly planted, like the willow

with its families of birds

that came un-

invited to weigh down

its fragile branches.

Try to hold on, gain

and hold. Sway and hold. 

Day 5 

Shocktop Ale

White, Belgian,

foaming on my lip; 

snow drifts down. 

Day 6  

Junk Drawer

for Katherine

There it is, the whatchamacallit,

the thing I’ve saved since

whenever it was special, that bit

of something, a carefully folded

message to myself for later.

It’s creased just so, neat like towels

I learned to fold precisely to please

my mother. She never said it was space

she worried about, the towel cabinet

so slim as to fit into the corner

of the hall by the bathroom. Fluffy

towels with the fold-end out, just so.

So here I am, towels folded properly,

staring at this paper I tucked away

for later. A crayoned drawing and

"You are the bestest Mommy ever!" 

in your 6 year old scribble. I am a queen 

to you then, in my triangle dress,

my crooked yellow crown. 

No wonder, after all these years, I can still smile. 

Day 7      

Pearl

Fire rains down into the bay,

poisonous smoke snakes 

its way into everything, palms

and soles burnt and stuck

to the decks, the metal twists

of hull and rail adhere to fists

that grabbed for balance

as the ships rocked in reverb

to the blasts of shell and mortar.

It is a poisonous thing we remember,

day when even Paradise was Hell.

Day 8  

Window

Great grey plopping drops,

mirrors of the sky, no December

I’ve ever known. Call it fault

of resistors to recycling, the rise 

of the sea or ocean temperature,

call it happen-chance or cyclic,

it’s not looking much like winter.

Birds are confused, squirrels chase

dreams of snow-top scampers,

and no one is thinking of ice fishing

or snow boards or skating on the pond.

This is starting to look like a bare-treed 

season. If it were warmer, I’d consider 

washing windows or working

in the greenhouse. It’s a caught-between

time and I cannot figure out what

to do to make it shine. Come January,

if there is still no snow, I predict a rise

in tempers. People grump and thump

when there is no snow and no sun.

But for today, I watch blue jays

chase cardinals, jockeying for dominance.

Day 9

Cleaning Out Her Desk, an Elegy

In her desk, under legal papers, 

a book that long enough ago 

she had treasured, every page 

worn from turning:

an unused coloring book.

In her childish hand, me!

scrawled under a simple figure

gracing the inside cover, girl

with triangle dress and feet, hands

missing, purple wings with red edging,

the only moment of crayon here

before she moved on to other dreams.

Take care when you decide

things after the cemetery. Hovering 

in the corner of her old room, 

a handless angel 

whose very life once depended 

upon an unused coloring book

and its open pages ... 

Day 10

Benson’s Ride

I never got to Africa, nor the Sahara

where I would have to cover my face

to keep from breathing in sand. Never

got to be a nomad, living in a lean-to

or a pop-up tent under the stars.

But I got to ride an elephant, sway

in the big wicker basket on her back

and feel like a princess, surveying

the realm. I got wet from sprays

of her trunk thrown back when I hollered.

I got to smell the dirt she kicked 

up as we lumbered along the path

through the artificial savannah. Uncle

Cheddie cheered me on, proud

I was not afraid. Benson’s

Wild Animal Farm of New Hampshire

is never going to let me ride again.

Closed and done, it is as unreachable

as Africa now. But I am still brave enough

to ride an elephant if one shows up here.

Day 11

Decembers

They are all here

like ornaments, twinkling

and swaying. I keep them in tissue

paper most of the time, take them

out in December to let them shine.

There are the two Donnies, Jimmy, Fred,

Larry, Bruce, and the summer boys;

each face gleams like Decembers

long ago when we were brighter

and ready for anything. 

I married in December, 

the glitter of winter in my eyes. 

Bill, my Polaris, lights

my sky the whole year ‘round.

Day 12

Saved

She didn’t save things, no dolls

from her childhood, no Valentines

from old beaux. Practical girl

without ties to what was done,

she lived in the moment. In her cedar chest 

only his things: Eisenhower jacket

from the war, his medals,

a small notebook, plastic

tube filled with buttons. Why

did he keep a tube of buttons

covered in white silk, I wondered

until I realized this was all

that was left of her wedding dress.

Daddy said that his life was saved twice:

once in the Ardennes, once at the altar.

Day 13  

Anna and Arrigo

I’d trade for love

letters. I’d give up shoes

and a warm coat in a snowstorm

for your handwriting

scrawled as only you loop

it lazily across a page. I’d trade 

in every holiday

for one we made years ago

when your smile lit up the room

to see me enter. I’d trade

my last breath for your kisses

on my neck. Don’t leave

without me, sweetheart, even

though I am old and you are too.

We have so many more love letters

and kisses to share.

Day 14

Gone

are the blossoms blowing in the yard,

the bright finchie-foo-fah at the feeders,

the mowing and raking and washing the cars.

Gone too are the the many tasks needed

by people of summer and fall.

Here is the folding in time instead

when nights are long and warmed by fire

and we go early to cuddle in bed

or as Nana said, we’d go up to retire.

But that’s not the half of it all:

When seasons spin and December arrives,

when the stars seem closer and bright,

we’ll dance real slow in each other’s arms

and give thanks for long winter nights.

Day 15 

Lessons From First Grade

In the front row, a boy fidgeting 

with the buttons on his shirt. 

His mother lets him do them on his own

because it’s what mothers do

for their first grader sons. He hears

a sound and looks up to see a shadow:

Is it his dad coming home early? His

cousin bringing cookies for the party?

A loud noise. All the buttons 

pop off his shirt as he falls to the floor.

There was no time to call for his mother.

— for the children of Newtown, CT

Day 16        

Cousins

In your Christmas card, photos

from our childhood, one never

seen by me at all. Two of us

with apples: me in a pretty dress

and you with plastic on your leg

because you have Cerebral Palsy.

Grown now, apples eaten, happy

to see each other at your Costco job

where you are as able as anyone

and better able than most

to understand that love and strength

have nothing to do 

with how well our bodies work.

Day 17 

Oh, yes Oh, no!

The channels for choosing

are clogged. Maybe it’s the algid

weather that has me frozen.

Maybe it’s too hot in the house.

Maybe I’m tired or might be

that I have too much energy

for decisions to be solid. Oh

yes, I say followed by Oh, no!

It’s hard to know what to do:

silver sparkly shoes or basic black?

Day 18   

Treble  

Go to the window when you wake at midnight.

The moon is pulling at the sea. It’s you it pulls.

Listen to the Siren sing of magical delights.

Go to the window when you wake at midnight.

She says its time to swim out in moonlight.

Sprinkle holy water when the tide is full.

Go to the window when you wake at midnight.

The moon is pulling at the sea. It’s you it pulls.

Listen to the tide come in against the shoals.

Dare not go onto the rocks when it shows ire

nor put your foot into its pit of burning coals.

Listen to the tide come in against the shoals.

Take fair warning: it plays by its own rules.

Undertow and rip count on your desire.

Listen to the tide come in against the shoals

Dare not go onto the rocks when it shows ire.

When the tide turns, it’s time to honor the moon.

Go into the water up to your waist. Swim out,

let your hair fall and rise on the ocean’s spume.

When the tide turns, it’s time to honor the moon

floating up from the horizon like a child’s balloon.

Strip off your anger shirt, your surly pout.

When the tide turns, it’s time to honor the moon.

Go into the water up to your waist. Swim out.

Day 19 

Fighting is Good Done Right

I smacked her a good one

the man said to another man 

about his daughter. At nine, I wondered

if that meant a lip-smacking kiss

for a great report card.

She got what she deserved

the woman said when she found out

her cousin was beaten by her husband

after a fight over what she’d made

for dinner. He had it coming.

We all saw the video and heard

the police chief defend the cops

who pummeled Rodney King.

Fights ought to be done

without fighting I decide, on paper

with a thesis stated and defended. 

Maybe it’s just me, 

but I love a good fight

when it’s over topics —

where both sides 

can win.

Day 20 

Medical Mal-Planning

They say (I got the notice in the mail)

that on January 27, my health information 

is going to everyone 

in the medical world who might see me 

for a blister or for cancer. They will exchange

my info for what? Guns or drugs?

Or maybe there is big money now

in selling info back and forth. Worried

about someone auctioning off 

my right kidney on eBay or a lobe

of my left lung, I will fill the form they sent

to “opt out” of this “convenience”

designed (so they say) for me.

Funny how I might have to get a notarized

signature to find out if my husband

has left the waiting room for the exam room,

but I must opt OUT of having my diabetes

broadcast to kingdom come. Please don’t 

mail off a notice to everyone 

that I have webbed toes on both feet.

Can I opt out of mail while we’re at it?

Day 21  

Deep Purple

— for Donnie

Over sleepy garden walls, 

my memories rush back, wander

back in the purple of twilight.

I see your face, feel the words

you once whispered in my hair. 

I love you still, but not as then. 

We were young, thought the world 

was for us and only us. We know

that we are changed, that the world

spins a little slower or faster.

It is other young lovers there now,

thinking it will never change.

The love I have for you is knowing

that you are happy and so am I,

knowing you did not die in Viet Nam

—and me not pressing my face to another 

kind of wall: a wall of names and tears.

Day 22 

Why My Birthday is Not Celebrated

as a holiday is no surprise,

no shock that only a few people 

(most of them deceased)

care to celebrate me. Not famous

by way of heroism or infamy, not a royal

or a scoundrel, I am just here.

There is something though, a something

that might tip the scales in favor

of a me-day. So far, that certain something

is a highly classified secret. There'd be jail

time for spilling that one; so for now

just bake me a dark chocolate cake, 

slather on the white frosting,

put way too many candles on top —

enough to light the way to Mothers Day.

Day 23 

Breaking Up

When changing your status

from “in a relationship” to “single”

be careful not to call her later

to say something “comforting.” Care

enough not to make a snark remark

on Facebook or to your friends.

Throwing snowballs of anger

(like the ones with stones in the middles

thrown by the big ole bully two doors

down from your house) just sting

and make you cry in the cold.

Change is like finding yourself 

in a blizzard, the snow a fury 

around your heart and sleep impossible 

for a time. So go easy; wrap yourself

in a big fluffy coat and hat. Have a cup of tea.

Be kind as you leave her; be sweet enough

that one day, she might see you 

in the shops and smile, touch your hand

and say “how’s your life?” You’ll be glad

of it and glad of what she taught you.

Day 24 

Nepenthe*

— a widow’s lament

She might have taken something strong

for the sorrow that wrapped her

as she lay sleeping, but here she is

waking without you and lying

in a bed of tears. The ancient Greeks 

knew medicine for all things: strange 

salves to rub away warts, potions to cure 

all manner of illness, but they really knew 

about sorrow, tragedy being the main act 

of every play. She wants nepenthe 

stirred or swirled into her cocoa

before spending another night alone.

You never liked taking even an aspirin,

would endure painful teeth or a blown

knee until she insisted you do something.

You thought pain a badge of honor.

She has in mind a certain ancient

formula, an oblivion of sorrow.

• a medicine for sorrow, "drug of forgetfulness" mentioned in ancient Greek literature. Nepenthe was a potion used by the ancients to induce forgetfulness of pain or sorrow, a potion capable of causing oblivion of grief or suffering.

Day 25    

Winter’s Lament

for Amanda

I am dressed, a shroud of cold

danced down in algid frenzy. 

Sunlight will end me soon enough. 

For now, I need midnight

to go on and on, with its dark chill,

its life of time. Only in moonlight,

on a hill or under a grove of pines,

will I survive, and not for long. Come

invited guest, lie still on my breast.

Your sleep will be my gift. 

When day breaks into sun, 

I will be gone

and they will find you

with stars and sky in your mouth.

Day 26   

Transformed

The mirror must have lost 

some of it silvered back,

must have slipped on its hook.

I am 27 or 34, can still skate 

on the millpond in winter,

ride my bicycle around town,

swim for an hour without stopping.

Bicycles and skates go for small

dollars at the yard sale. Birthdays

mark ends more than beginnings.

Hours play games on every face,

towns shrink or inflate, lose their places,

winter takes longer to become spring.

Day 27 

The Interview 2

for Richard Wilbur

I catch up with you in your study

where we’ve agreed to talk an hour:

me the asker of questions, you 

the man of words, ideas —

magic ice, the makar of spells.

Taller than any imagined hero, 

you fill the whole space 

with grace — and that voice

which must pause to recite

each line as you pen it, as you refine. 

There is music in the room, 

though all the notes you are playing

are ghosts at the present.

Your adoring audience wants 

to touch the desk where you write,

watch the snow that falls

against your windows as fireflies,

brisk and darting. Wants nothing else.

Your house well outside the village,

but even frost would stop to see 

its shadow rise from warmth of lines

that hold the sudden ends of time,

that split the clouds like riven wood

to let in the sun’s tapestry. 

My fingers clasp, unclasp, then clasp

again around my pen; tiny 

river melts its way down my spine.

You’ve known winter and its blue ice,

but none so dread as that which lost

your heart in it, still and frozen.

Yours beats on down the path where she

is not waiting any more, she

whose dream you could not inhabit.

You are left here to write of her,

left alone here trying to catch

up with her. Your sighs become words

that thrill us all, that make me pause.

I catch up with you, and you stay

in our small moment, gracefully,

but all the while her voice surrounds

you, her perfume on every word

you have finished, on every page.

NOTE: a makar is a poet

Day 28     

Tale of Two Cities

The postmark is from somewhere.

I can no longer read the city, but the hand 

is yours. Large curved letters form my name. 

It came in December, the year you left 

for the states and I remained in Germany. 

Where is the letter now

that once I tore from its vellum,

devoured like a prisoner’s last meal?  

I feel the envelope’s smooth face

and think of yours, remember

your lips brushing mine good-bye,

a tear sliding quietly from my left eye.

In our two cities, we made up lives

we each could live. We made it that far,

until the mail came that December.

Day 29 

Don’t Cry Me One

Rivers are not tears

so don’t cry me one, laugh 

and wade right in. Swift

is the river of my laughter,

over stones and boulders older

than every other living being,

wiser than all the sages and mystics,

I chase the cold against my ankles,

as it goes fast enough 

to take my giggles

and make them known

to great grandchildren not born.

Swift, you comfort my old age,

you remind me of days

and nights when my body 

could do anything, when my hair

was long as the willow’s own.

You say stories only you remember,

show in your forehead faces 

of healers and wanderers, girls

and their lovers reclined against your bed

with water swift against their legs.

Rivers are not tears

so don’t cry me one. Cry me

trees long broken and hauled away,

deer and moose hunted for sport,

children wrenched from their language.

River, Swift, if I cry it’s not for you.

Day 30

Red Sky at Morning*

Clouds bucking the surface of the sea

buckling its skin, taking on water,

evaporating hopes of mariners

heading for home after their big haul.

In the eastern sky, daybreak flares out

with its warning: bad storm’s a-coming lads,

bad storm’s a-coming and you’d best get home

where the fire’s laid and the mugs warmed up.

Steady eye, unsteady wake and all

hands on deck for the run to the harbor,

the hold teeming with early morning catch;

what a day’s pay we’ll fetch from this lads

if we can git this girl t’home, git 

this girl t’home. Else we’ll go down singin’

meet th’others at the bottom o’ the sea.

So haul away, Joe and Tim and Mike.

Clouds bucking the surface of the cold sea.

Sky’s warning disasters yet to be told.

Bad storm’s a-comin’ lads, better head home.

Bad storm’s a-comin’, lads, she’s a-comin’

*from an old sailors’ verse of superstition:

Red sky at night, sailors’ delight; 

Red sky at morning, sailors take warning

Day 31     

18th Century Southern Ladies 

of the St Cecilia Society* loved music, 

concert-going their raison d’etre. Social 

to a fare thee well, well-heeled all,

they fanned themselves in the heat

of cotillions and soirées, celebrated fashion

-able entertainment from abroad, were poised

and perfumed to the nines. It was all so —

so Southern. Blue blood ran rich in their veins,

most from antebellum stock, some moneyed

exceptions made for the sake of politics.

Family honor, courtesy reigned supreme.

No pure-bred lady from Charleston 

was ever drunk, displaying of anything 

off  the register.  Charleston afternoons were hot, 

heat rising like midges on every lawn. Juleps 

served in silver cups on leafy verandas, fans 

from The Orient in every proper lady’s hand, a case 

of the vapors cause for alarm and attention. 

But on cool musical evenings, bowls 

of St Cecilia Society Punch and designated

carriage drivers to fetch the happy ladies safely home.