Number 62 In Blue
The candle sputtered
Then guttered out
The wick a speck in the wax
The old poet looked
And suffered to stand up
The last present wrapped was Jack’s
A fresh Christmas candle
Striped Santa red and holly green
With its new flame warmed the room
Placing presents about
A tree to shame Charlie Brown
The shards of wrapping left with the broom
The cat’s tail flicked serene
The poet reached for his quill
As words soft filled a new page
A chance Winter memory
Spurred the poet on
Thoughts neither steep nor very sage
She bought him skis for a gift
Though “cross” country would mean something else
Tears of laughter with every tumble and spill
He wondered where she was now
A score of years have long passed
When meeting on Concourse B was such the piquant thrill
Chinese Five Spices
Floated upon the solemn merlot
The poet paused to let the tightness pass
Tomorrow the two-state drive
Back to his beloved Crescent City
Though this year without his own wee lass
Daughter would be skiing
Off out with her Mother and half family
Cross country over in the mountain West
He’d be with swiftly aging brother
And a Christmas with the family Creole
But things always work out for the best
A meow and a sigh
The poet let Jack out the door
A cat in search of secret nocturnal meetings
The candle blew out neat
The cold front had as promised arrived
As the rain pelted out its Season’s Greetings
Waxing and waning here came Christmas Number Sixty-two
But he yet looked ahead brightly through this Yuletide in Blue
Grains of sand from the road to water’s edge,
Clumps of grass grace the seaward’s fall,
Tender toes brave dawn’s early light,
To stroll into the waves so cold and all.
Squeals of joy and peals of laughter let fly—
Summer is here and time to resalt the soul.
Billowing clouds hint at storms a-coming in,
But now bodysurfing‘s the only required toll.
Find a towel, find your sunscreen,
Lip touch a smile with no daylight between.
Salt and sand peppering red tender arms,
Coke and burger calls skink across Biloxi beach;
Run ask Momma for some dollars quick.
Lunchtime’s over: let’s walk beyond parental reach.
Hand-in-hand they’re yet too young to know,
How now will ever be so very special,
But when you’re in your teens,
All that later stuff is so very subsequential.
Find a blanket, no need for the obscene:
Just lip touch a smile with no daylight in between.