Xmas Mirror

 This is a poem I have been writing for about ten years, ever editing, usually updating, sometimes adding a new line or stanza, always reflecting my experience of the Christmas spirit.

Blue Mirror (an update)

She asked about the blue mirror we

had packed and moved a few times 

but never used for anything,

so I told her the story of how,

from the time I was four or five,

my mother would put it on 

the four by five cedar chest we used 

as an end table, but

at Christmas time, we'd

put fake snow and little people on it 

to make a festive scene.

I'm 77 now, and through the years,

a lot of stuff has disappeared, like

lamps and photos and baseball cards.

People, too. 

I've lost dogs and cats, some car keys,

the home I grew up in, 

even my mother, 

who died suddenly one September,

and we didn't have Christmas

after that for a long time, 

what with sadness, 

and later, for me, war.

I never lost that blue mirror, though.

Then I met her, and I had very little stuff,

but I had her, and that was more than enough.

Her family was big on Christmas,

so after we returned from our December honeymoon,

we went to her growing-up home,

watched her baby sister 

put the ornaments on their tree, 

the round ones made with

a glitter and a glue stick, 

the ones with everybody's names on them, 

and we were the last ones to go up, 

smack dab in the center front, 

apparently a place of honor,

to much oohing, ahing and smiling.

My dad was there, 

our first Christmas in forever. 

It was cold, really cold, but

our hearts melted.

So, the blue mirror, remember? After

we moved to a town with lots of folks,

one where we could have visitors, we

started to decorate excessively. Too much

was still not enough, with wreaths and

themed trees and garland and such. she

said we should bring out the blue mirror and

make a scene, so we went looking for

fake snow and little trees and people.

Then Department 56 happened,

and a train set happened,

and more Department 56 happened,

and I built display tables and drilled holes

and did dangerous, overloaded wiring

and it was big and grand and good,

and all of our friends loved it,

and more Department 56 happened,

and a storage locker to hold it all happened.

I think I mentioned that I'm 77 now.

Those boxes and tables got heavier,

that wiring got more painful to connect.

We’ve lost a few more people,

there's this talk about voluntary simplicity.

Still have that blue mirror, though.

We thought we’d soon start a new tradition,

borrow from the past, bring out the older,

garage sale the newer.

But, then, like dancing lessons from God,

our crazy old world demanded even more simplicity.

So, what to do?

Krinkles accessories,

all the Santa ornaments,

and the clowns,

and the reindeer,

and the snowmen,

and the angels,

and...oh, what the heck, 

we can’t just sell them on Ebay,

even as the people stopped stopping by.

Well, we found our Christmas spirit,

donated  much to charities hurt by the plague,

and they sold them to support their good works,

gave them to the children in their lives.

Then it occurred that young families

might start their own traditions,

find the spirit of

their own blue mirror,

so off went much of the remainder.

Just down the street though, 

so we can visit and see their joy.

The mom wants to pay us for our generosity,

but we’ll have none of that. 

We’ve already been paid, 

by the thoughts of children and their imaginations.

After all, we kept the blue mirror, 

the one in the closet,

and the one in our hearts.

Anniversary of a new knee

 Anniversar-knee 

‘‘Twas merely a year ago, 

COVID intruding on

our 50th anniversary,

oh no, what can we do,

how can this be?

What to do instead?

But then she and Kaiser said,

it’s time and there’s room,

(no, not on Zoom).

The surgeon is ready,

and her hands are steady,

so come in for a day,

and go home that night,

yes, you really may,

it’ll be quite all right.

She went in the next morning,

her excitement aborning,

by five we left there,

home to a friend’s wheelchair.

Home therapy at first,

and for drugs, well,

not much of a thirst.

Later, in for p.t.,

where she performed impressively.

Throughout all 2021,

she’s been the one,

doing what was needed,

rehab directions she heeded.

So it’s now been a year,

and we should be of good cheer.

It’s clear she, 

and her knee, 

are the best, Number One,

as we plan anniversary 51.

I must stop now,

before it’s too late,

only one first anniversar-knee, wow,

mustn’t go past this date.

So as I close I’ll just say,

nicely done, hip hip hurray!

My Christmas Song

 One Can Dream

I so want this to be

our Christmas Song,

Inviting all ye faithful,

on this, oh holy night.

Praying you hear what I hear,

that it’s possible to bring

joy to the world,

and rest at last to merry gentlemen

(and gentlewomen).

Santa baby,

all I want for Christmas 

is a truly silent night,

no artillery drummer boy

simply angels we have heard on high,

singing Christmas is the time 

to say I love you.

Let us rock around the Christmas tree.

Let us tell it on the mountain…

…Happy Xmas  (war is over).

Praise all that is holy,

let this be our Christmas Song.

Marine Corps 246th Birthday

 Thinking today about

my fellow Marines.

All gave some.

Some gave all.

There are no

ex-Marines,

especially me,

even now at 77,

still at home,

ready and awaiting orders.

My fellow Marines did not, 

contemporary Marines do not,

fight for some higher authority.

Nearly never.

They fought and fight for each other,

keeping their pledge,

abiding by their oath,

operating with ruthless honor.

They fought and fight together,

my brothers and sisters,

protecting the living and

attending to their higher obligation,

remembering the dead.

My brothers and sisters.

The Marines.

Even when I have not met them,

I know them, I appreciate them, and

I love them.

Semper fidelis.

One Veteran’s Veterans Day Story

 I write, inspired by the writing of others,

especially the words of Veterans, 

my sisters and brothers,

As age has flattened me,

as humility has claimed me,

I write less of combat,

more of my Spiritual mission,

about oneness, unity and transition,

what some call God, universal cognition.

Not knowing what tomorrow will bring,

I’ll still write about it, in my own voice,

allow my heart and soul to sing,

I don't always

cross bridges

with joy and ease.

I am still a work in progress,

sometimes struggling,

but always thrilled by

my fellow veterans' 

achievements and triumphs.

I enjoy seeing their success,

especially because I only

hang out with people I love,

comrades who support me.

I have made many mistakes 

but none of them 

involved loving too much.

The longer I live,

the more I see

everything is Divinity.

Every thing I have.

Every thing I do.

Every thing I achieve.

Every thing I am.

Every thing I will be.

How far I have come.

How wonderful this life is.

When I look into the mirror,

I sometimes laugh out loud.

I’m funny that way,

recalling that foreign objects

enter oysters to make pearls.

How it is with my many scars.

Guilt, shame, sadness and remorse 

moved my past life, but no longer,

as age, experience and truth

have softened and humbled me,

I know that whenever answers elude me,

when success seems to run from me,

even if I forget to be grateful for what I have,

the Grace of Spirit will carry me home.

A Couple of movement pieces

 Bungee Blessings

Freely falling

into gratitude,

inching, improving

my attitude,

steadfastly sharing

my place,

always aware 

of God’s Grace.

—————————-

Peace, Please

Jumping on the Veterans bandwagon,

the one with fire and dreams,

where we fight and we aspire,

at least that’s the way it seems,

to never create another Veteran,

at least not the combat kind.

No more wars, please,

at the least, if you don’t mind.

MEG’s birthday

 

My Scorpio Friend

You are knowledgeable,

smarter than the average bear.

You know what’s what,

you know where’s where.

You have the gift of perception 

and clear insight.

You know what’s wrong,

you know what’s right.

No one can pull the wool

across your eyes.

You know the truth,

you know the lies.

It’s October 26th,

and come what may,

you know it will be amazing,

you know it’s your birthday!

Enjoy, dear MEG

Alive Day

 Alive Day

October 27 is my Alive Day, 54 years after death came alongside me, took several of my buddies, but didn’t claim me. Oh, it tried. It tried hard, even sending me floating above my corporeal self on the battlefield, having me meet with my mother, dead some nine years earlier, as she gave me directions to go back, and to live a good life. Alive Day is not a formal event, not so much celebrated as experienced, mostly by wounded veterans, but also by anyone who has had a brush with infinity. While not formal, it is a very real thing, the date one might have died or been killed, but wasn’t. I write about it, spend this day in reflection, as part of my own ongoing healing process, as my never-ending effort to be content when my actual transition occurs. I support veterans, by submitting to the Veterans Voices Writing Project, donating to the Wounded Warrior Project, being a life member of Disabled American Veterans,  and I urge veterans to make special note of their own Alive Day. 

Most, if they are like me, spent every day after their most important war - the one which happened to them - trying to forget what they saw, what they did. I learned, after years of denial, that it is healthier, more transformative, to remember. This is a very personal day, not one for speeches, for toasts, for “thank you for your service” comments. It is a day for self-thanks, for contemplation, a chance to listen to the whispers of gratitude and appreciation. This is a day to allow the memories to be heard, and shared if the sharing might contribute to the Good. This is how one heals and goes forward, in honor of fallen comrades, in appreciation for opportunities to be of service, living gratefully in the life one was given.

Exactly 54 years ago, some young corpsman risked his life and saved mine at Con Thien, at 0230, October 27, 1967. I wish I knew his name, could thank him in person, but I have never forgotten him, pulling me to safety and morphine until Puff and the medivac chopper arrived to carry me off, many hours later. I would so like him to know that I lived a good life, made a difference to many in need, and aim to be a true and steadfast friend.

Daniel George, 3/3/3, Third Battalion, Third Regiment, Third Marine Division Alumnus

If Only

 It’s Sunday somewhere else,

someplace where 

love and good and light,

are real in life,

just as real as toil and strife,

where “effortless effort”

is written in invisible ink

on nonexistent name tags,

where there’s music and prayer and meditation,

a break from madness, a soulful vacation.

I have no name for the effect,

but I do know what I might expect,

if I could but rise to attend,

my body to heal, my heart to mend.

Others would speak, I would listen,

and an unseen current

might course through me,

perhaps a tear might glisten.

Maybe it could be, possibly I’d see

that change is challenging

but hope is tangible,

and grace is possible.

If only.

RJC

 She shares her music on the road,

meets famous people so I’m told.

She sings at home for locals too,

for average folks like me and you.

She’s made of kindness, soulful love,

and she’s humble, a little bashful (well, sort of).

Friend, daughter, sister, wife,

she brings joy to everybody’s life.

In a world full of too much hateful

she gives us reasons to be grateful,

stoking our better intended fires

as she writes and plays and sings, 

she constantly inspires.

So on this fine October day,

we are happy that she came our way,

expressing ourselves enough to say

we hope she has a grand birthday.

House of Wax (1953)

 To be read aloud…

I was only nine but it was a time before much tv, so we went to movies to relax, but that was before I saw that scary one, that House of Wax. Vincent Price was a professor, but if I’m now to be a true confessor, I admit it was more Charles Bronson frightening me as Igor. My shakes didn’t stop, not even when Frank Lovejoy entered as a cop, and the shivers stayed the same with Dabs Greer as Sgt. Shane, while my heart felt that jerk when Roy Roberts came on as Matthew Burke. You’d think Carolyn Jones as Cathy Gray would alleviate that day, but no way, I say. I can’t lie, nor pretend, I didn’t make it to the end, as out of the theater I ran, still remember it as an old man, and try as a might, there was no sleep for me that night.

Moderation

There is but one thing

that calls me to excess,

which leads my heart to sing,

easily above the rest,

and that thing is gratitude.

Grateful for my life, my wife,

my friends, the time to make amends,

the reading that I’ve done,

the Spirit with which I’m one.

Thankful for each day,

grateful I still may

pursue the Middle Way. 

Traveling on

 Across the Sea

There was a time,

when our legs still worked

and our feet did not hurt

and we were too young

to fear exotic places,

never considered illnesses.

There was a time,

when drachmas were still used,

before the euro ruse,

and we’d hop on a ferry to

somewhere, some island

we did not know,

just a place to go,

trusting, without a doubt,

it would all work out.

We even floated on the Nile,

northward, from Aswan

to Luxor, the only way to

see the Johnny Carson ruins,

the temple of Karnak.

It was an earlier time 

with only two smallish cruisers,

one going north, the other south,

five days with stops along the way,

with local transportation,

one day a carriage, 

another a bus,

once a walking tour,

then even a felucca.

That was a time

before the crazies

started shooting people, with

real-life Uzi’s,

real-life bullets,

real-life hate.

My sweetie was mugged three times,

we still went, 

the big cities,

Barcelona, Paris, London, the rest,

all called us and we answered,

driving, walking, snapping,

truly blessed.

Yes, there really was that time.

Now, I can’t imagine travel,

it’s harder to see,

and there’s a lot more than an ocean

between other countries and me.

I understand my father now,

after they

opened him up,

closed him up,

why he said no when

I offered 

a trip to the Old Country before

it was too late.

He knew that time had passed.

In Wallace Steven’s style

 

Seasonal Notebook Thoughts, 17 x 17

Summer’s final breath,

ravens scouting this year’s nests,

monks still pray for peace.

Autumn’s first breezes,

humans spy as we build homes,

wrens find peace mid-air. 

Days of thanksgiving

abound with friendship and joy.

There is bliss in peace.

Seeking awareness

before winter’s arrival.

Peace may still flow in.

As winter draws near,

perhaps we’ll tread consciously.

Peace is every step.

Clouds of December,

painting paths and rooftops white. 

Peace in the village.

Frosted serenades

accent winter’s frozen sleeps.

Dawn’s peace comes slowly.

Living mindfully

in the holiday bedlam.

Peace is a challenge.

Winter’s fire is banked,

air dancing above hard coals

At peace in my bed.

Spring is not summer.

Pickles aren’t yet cucumbers.

Peace is who one is.

Soft blue, like the sky

in the first kiss of summer.

Peace, carried by doves. 

She sang of summer,

winter’s grip soon forgotten.

Peace always trumps fear.

Life is as it is.

No need to create anew.

Peace is snow and sun.

Elders learn by fall

that summer’s crises soon end.

Peace will come with calm.

All of man’s seasons

bring natural inventions,

peace the best of them.

One is not separate

from the earth at any time.

With peace, all are one.

There’s but one question,

summer, winter, spring and fall.

Will one work for peace?