Celebrating Poets and Their Songs

Written and arranged by:

Susan Haley, Poetry Coordinator

Aaah, December. The season of ‘lights’, of endings and new beginnings. The season of gifts and sharing, and the celebration of our personal ‘faith’. With those thoughts in mind, I’d like to share ‘the end of a story’.

In November, I introduced Winifred Lieser, an eighty-eight year old lady in a Hospice facility. I was able to print the page and share it with her, along with the response messages, at the care facility. The dear lady was overwhelmed. Her only comment, eyes glistening with tears, was a soft thank you, a feeble hand squeeze, and “I hope a heart was touched.” I assured her that was the case. Thank you to those of you who expressed your thoughts to me. Your feedback was, indeed, a ‘flower’ to a dying woman. Bless you, who cared enough to take a small moment of your time and send good wishes and appreciation.

Childless, this dear couple, their time having waned now into days, presented me with a note about a large box safely stored for me at the nurses’ station. It literally holds the soul of a fellow sojourner’s eighty-seven years of life on this plane. I’m humbled by the gift. It’s priceless. It calls to memory another Christmas story . . . a little drummer boy who could only give the Christ child his song. It’s only fitting that December be entered through Winifred’s box.

“Christmas and Time”

When I was seven, Christmas meant to me

The sound of carols, glitter on the tree.

Presents wrapped in tissue, stockings safely hung

Above the crackling fireplace . . . ah, when I was young.

When I was thirty, Christmas needed snow

And candle-flicker along the fireside’s glow.

It needed gifts for ones I loved, oh, and carols too,

And all the happy friends that I ever knew.

When I was fifty, Christmas was more a time

For praising God in thoughts, simple verse, and rhyme.

A time for gifts to those who I held the most dear.

Then maybe they’d remember me, too, this year.

Now, I’m turning eighty and I sincerely know

There’s much more to Christmas than a candle’s glow.

Than gifts, glittered trees, and Christmas carol’s chime

But now it is all lost to me in my vanished time.

Time flows unceasingly through all of our lives,

Relentless, the dusk falls and dawn does arrive.

We measure it with calendars and with ticking clocks.

We just can’t stop its flow with all our walls and locks.

Yet, time is merely that which we do perceive

To an infant, one brief day seems more like a week.

Months are weary years to those of us who grieve

But to the old, who life, unending seek

Days, weeks, months, and years, all are too brief

Yes, to the old, tomorrow does come too soon.

It’s but a breath of air between dark night and noon.

A second in eternity, one last fleeting chance

To give all we’ve loved one last backward glance.

Again skeins of Christmas lights begin to encase

So many homes in crystal icy lace.

Ornaments sparkle once again on bush and tree

Giving joy for the passersby to see.

And, I can only hope that here on the earth

Each light will reflect the symbol of a Birth,

And every Christmas lamp that glows

Holds love that toward the world, will flow.

Winifred Lieser -1999

~ ~ ~

I’m happy to introduce a ‘new’ face this month, too, new to the Infinite Writer. Elizabeth Barrette surely isn’t new to Poetry. She’s had over three hundred poems appear in over ninety markets.  Recent publication credits include "What You Should Call Us" in Coyote Wild and "The Scorpion Ankh" in Niteblade.  Her work “One   Ship Tall” recently won the 2007 SFPA Poetry Contest.  Currently, she is Managing Editor for PanGaia magazine, which includes selecting the poetry.

In the ‘flair’ of the season, Elizabeth shares a little poem that came to her upon contemplating using some pretty gold paper and a gift box. Imagine, the time you opened a gift box elegantly bearing the name of a notable jeweler only to discover a bottle of bubble bath.

“Giftwrapt”

It suddenly occurs to me

that English has no word for

that category of container

which one must never use

for enclosing a gift

unless the contents

match the picture on the box,

because to do so

would evoke too much

anticipation and then disappointment

in the recipient, no matter

how wonderful the gift itself,

for example,

Godiva chocolates.

 In Elizabeth, I’ve also found one with an Earthsong reminiscent of my own. The choice to use was difficult.

“Winter Slumberland”

The poppies nod their heads; dried seedpods bob,

Like saltshakers dispersing fine black grains.

The tulips snooze beneath their leafy mulch,

And even early crocus still abed.

Yet farther underground, cicadas wait,

With all their songs of summer uncomposed.

On southern facing trees, the bark reveals

Where ladybugs have put them in the pink.

In hidden hollows, chipmunks curl like shells

Beyond the reach of winter’s wayward tides.

The stone wall tumbles at the garden’s end,

Above a lazy macramé of snakes.

The woodchucks in their burrows snore like drunks

And leave the shadow’s game to someone else.

This whitewashed season leaves the forest neat,

A bedroom draped in midnight’s velvet shades

And in the center, coverlets of snow –

Until, in March, Spring kicks the blankets off.

Elizabeth may be contacted at ysabet@worthlink.net for further information about her work.

Often, poetry serves as an expression of personal philosophy. Another new ‘face’ this month comes to us from Lauren Hedlan. Lauren was born and grew up in upstate New York, but has lived most of her adult life in New Orleans, Louisiana.  Through the years she taught literature and writing on different grade levels.  Hurricane Katrina sorely disrupted her and her husband’s lives. Both lost their job as a result of the devastation. Lauren told me, “The Lord has restored us work, finally, and we are starting to pick ourselves up.  I now teach at a small private school, and I love the children there.”  Her husband is currently working as an apartment manager and part-time musician. I've always loved philosophy, questing for answers, so my interest in literature has a philosophical bent.”  What follows is inviting of pondering for sure.

 “The New Lazarus”

Lazarus lies low now in his cave.

There he dreams he is yet alive

although he feels no more.

The immovable stone, hubris,

deceives him into thinking that

what he has is life.

Should You return, to call again,

"Lazarus, come forth!"

he would refuse, rather to remain

in decomposed flesh and linen,

preferring facts to promises.

Lauren Jedlan may be contacted at laurenjedlan@aol.com

I was taken with these poems by Peggy Sanders. I smiled reading her bio . . . “A few years ago, I found myself tagging along after my muse as she traipsed toward poems about women in various stages of their lives. I hope your readers might see a little bit of themselves within one of my poems.” Perhaps, some of the readers in the local area know Peggy as she told me she lived in Florida for five years before moving to Arkansas two years ago. She’s been writing ‘for more years than I care to admit to’, and has written special features and weekly columns for newspapers, has a published a novel “Shelter Among the Living”, and conducted writing workshops. She was president of the Pasco Authors and Writers Association (PASAWOR), and is now a member of the White County Creative Writers group. Watch for her on other pages of the Infinite Writer.

“Esperanza”

Spring returned, its winds

a wild and lonely sound

careening around the corners

of a tumbledown house

its fury peppering the paint

with grains of desert sand

battering the windows,

roaring at her to let it in.

She pulled aside a muslin curtain

remembering the hollow days

when she belonged to no one

and fear of madness

made her howl like the wind,

beaten down by chances lost

hope as fragile and shattered

as tulips lashed by the wind.

Then late in life it happened,

love as magical as smoke

blew right through her

and now between gusts

within the bluster of the storm

the wind pauses just long enough

for her to hear the whisper

of promise waiting, bringing summer.

“Scruffy Angels”

Scruffy angels

get the work done

with dirty hands

and aching backs

holes in knees

of faded jeans—

scruffy angels

find their sleep

in the trenches,

in the gutter

beside ravaged,

redeemable man,

get bloody,

get black eyes

touch the fire

on a forehead

burned by fever.

Scruffy angels

ride the bus,

wonder if

the food stamps

will hold out,

celebrate colors

of miracles

in yellow apples

and salmon sunrise.

They are in the touch

of tender hands

within the hearts

that ache with love

manifested in

the soft, lined faces

of women.

Peggy may be contacted at tejokid@yahoo.com

Thank you to all of the poets who’ve been introduced here over the last few months, and also to the readers who’ve enjoyed and taken time to send in a response. In the new year upon us, I’ll attempt to share a sampling of true free verse that does allow for one’s own interpretation and perspective. Poetry does allow us that stepping out of the confines of rules and structure and often the losing of those binds opens new, dimly lit corridors into the realm of mind and thought. And, isn’t that the birthing place of all ideas? I guess, being somewhat of a rebellious writer, that’s why I’m drawn to poetry.

I wish you all a season of serenity and peace, laughter and joy, wrapped in moments of solitude and reflection. Embrace where you’ve been, revel in where you are, and anticipate where you are going. The journey is short, the joys are many, the agonies, too. But, the memories are long and the experiences invaluable. Every good thought gives you purpose. Here’s mine on this special season . . .