Tuesday, December 27, 2011

Morning Joy

Morning Joy
I hear the percolating,
Piping and whistling;
Singing for me
Promises of bittersweet possibility.

I smell the aroma.
It’s deep bite bores into memory,
Reminding me of Christmas eves
And my grandfather’s tobacco.

I touch the cool porcelain handle
Of my largest mug,
The one where lovers from another era
Gaze eternity into each other’s eyes.

I see the blackened murky richness,
Swirling in streaky artistry
With the thick snowy cream
I pour with leisurely calculation.

I taste my concoction,
Sipping and lapping tentatively
For fear of burning my tongue.
I devour my morning’s joy.

Friday, December 9, 2011

The Santa Debate

The debate my two youngest children had over breakfast the other day:


“Oh, E. Don’t forget, we have to mail our letters today.”
“Did you finish yours already? I’m not done. Besides, it doesn’t really matter.”
“What do you mean?”
“The mailman won’t really deliver it. He prolly just puts ‘em in the paper recycle bin.”
“Why would he do that for? Look, I wrote it on the envelope. To – Santa Claus, The North Pole.  That’s the address.  He has to deliver it.”
“Where would he take it to? Santa doesn’t really live at the North Pole A. Only polar bears live there.”
“Yes he does.  I saw it on a movie.”
“Movies are just pretend.  They aren’t really real.  Besides, there’s no such thing as Santa.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Parents just say that to trick their kids.”
“What?  That’s not true.  There is too such a thing as Santa.  He’s a real person.  He brings the presents on Christmas.”
“A, that’s just what parents tell little kids.  Santa is not really real.  Mom and Dad … and Grandma buy our presents and put them under the tree while we are sleeping.”
“Nuh uh.  How do you know that? Did you see them do that?”
“Well … no. But everyone knows that’s how it works.”
“That’s not true. Santa brings the presents.”
“Nuh uh.  Besides, it doesn’t even make sense. How could Santa deliver all those presents in one night?”
“He has magic reindeers. And plus, he doesn’t have to bring presents to the Indians or animals.”
“What? Why wouldn’t the Indians get presents? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Does too. Indians aren’t kids that’s why.  Santa only brings presents to kids.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Indians can have kids too.”
“Nuh uh.  Kids can’t use real bows and arrows, so kids can’t really be Indians.”
“Well … I guess that’s true. But still, there’s no such thing as Santa.”
“Is too.”
“A, how could Santa even live in the North Pole?  Its really cold and icy there and there’s no grocery stores.  How would he eat?”
“He has food delivered. Plus he eats a lot of cookies and milk. Santa likes cookies and milk.”
“No, the parents eat the cookies and milk to trick the kids and make them THINK that Santa did it.”
“Nuh uh, Santa eats it with his elves.”
“Besides, how could he live with all those elves?  How would he take a shower or go to the bathroom in all that snow?”
“The polar bears eat it.”
“Eat it?  The polar bears eat the poop?”
“You said ‘polar bears eat poop!’”
“Nuh uh! That’s what you said!”
“Poop! Polar bear poop!”
“You’re so weird. Mom! A’s being gross …”
“Look.  I asked for a Donald Duck toy. See, I drew a picture for Santa so he won’t get confused.”
“There’s no such thing as Santa. Mom’s gonna buy that for you.”
“Nuh uh. Santa’s gonna bring it to me. I’ve been super good. I don’t think he’s going to bring you anything though, sorry E.”
“Hey! Besides, Mom does all the Christmas stuff, not Santa. Mom will buy me a present.
“Nuh uh.“
“Mom, you do all the Christmas stuff, like buying the presents and wrapping them, right?
“Eat your breakfast, it’s almost time to go to school.”
“But you do, don’t you Mom? You do all the Christmas stuff, right?”
“What? Are you saying I look like an old man with a white beard?”
“No! That’s not what I mean … Moooommm!”
“Told ya.”

Away - abit of sticky fluff to kick it off

Away
Tumble weeds and spider webs
Cloud the visions in my head
Sticking with their crusty threads
Marking pages; raising dead
And crumbling castles in my mind
Where I wait to pass the time
Until the knight comes forth to shine
And grant me wings that I may climb
Into the clouds still warm from day,
There I’ll rest and there I’ll stay;
Plucking starlight as I lay
Drifting, dreaming, bliss… away.