to the astronomer
light bucket
means a telescope
with a wide aperture
and parabolic mirrors
that collect
and reflect
great quantities of light
from objects
in deep space
for the universe
is a dark place
to the starry-eyed poet
light bucket
is a means
of picking up bits
of divine spark
for keeping
the mind’s aperture wide
the soul and spirit aligned
humanity’s parabola
so intelligently designed
for collecting
for reflecting
great buckets of light
for the universe
is a dark place
So it was, while I was skimming about for a photo of magical waters (never mind why), I stumbled across this illustration from a book called The Wonder Clock: Or, Four & Twenty Marvellous Tales, Being One for Each Hour of the Day.
Enchanted, I dug a little deeper and learned the tale of a wood-chopper’s son who, in spite of his father’s insistence, didn’t wish to be a wood-chopper himself and went off to school instead where he studied and studied and became the cleverest student in all the world…thumbnail version: with a bit of magic and much transformative wit involving hawks and fish and ruby rings, the Clever Student leaps into the basket of a princess who’s collecting seashells by the seashore. He ends up revealing his true self, marries her with the blessing of the King, and goes home to collect his wood-chopper father to live the rest of his days in comfort by the warmth of the stove in a fine home.
Key line: “And that is what comes of book-learning.”
—Gold.
Illustration from The Wonder Clock, Howard Pyle, 1887. Public domain.
inspired by a line in Diana: Her True Story —In Her Own Words: “I always sit by water when contemplating.”
I always sit by water
when contemplating
the world’s senseless slaughter
I always sit by water
reflecting: What grace to give, Daughter?
Beyond fire and ice complicating
I always sit by water
when contemplating
Water Lilies, Princess of Wales Conservatory, Kew Gardens. mattk1979. CC BY-SA 2.0.
Dennis says it’s true:
no one tops Santa Claws for
pawsome taste in shoes
In remembering my grandmother
on her hundred-and-seventh birthday
I suspect she never thought about
her stories as gifts
in living them
then giving them
for so many are laced
with a palpable sense of awe:
witnessing the birth
of her sister’s first child
the doctor gently molding
the baby’s little head
with his hands…
the family dog that was stolen
yet found his way home again
after chewing off the chains
and wearing his teeth to the gums…
seeing a doe with white-spotted fawns
crossing the old dirt road
for occasionally a doe had twins
(and once, only once in her ninety years,
triplets)…
taking her turn sitting
with a neighbor lady
who was dying
(as farm communities did
long ago
before the advent
of nursing homes
or hospice)
when the woman
unresponsive for days
suddenly sat up
right at the last
her face aglow
crying out
Can you hear them?
Can you hear them?
(—who, Grandma?
I asked as a rapt child
noting how her own face shone
with an otherworldly light
her blue eyes far away
reliving—
then coming back again
to rest again on me
with certainty:
I am sure it was
angels—)
and snow
and icicles
as big around as her arm
hanging from the eaves
the whole fierce, sparkling beauty
of it all
(not to mention Christmas)…
oh and birds
especially cardinals
(red birds, she called them)
and hummingbirds
in fact, many ornaments
in her house
were birds:
a crystal hummingbird
hanging in the hall archway
on the shelf, an eagle
spreading its wings
on the high-back piano
robins watching over a nest
filled with babies…
and music
and flowers
every single red poinsettia…
in remembering her stories
I realize
that this constant capacity for awe
may well have been
her greatest gift
of all
The poinsettia my husband and I place in church at Christmas comes home to live between Grandma’s piano and organ. Grandma’s funeral visitation was on the bitter cold, starry night of her ninety-first birthday. At the service the following day, her tiny hometown church was still decorated with red poinsettias.
I still marvel at the perfection.
inspired by my husband’s Christmas morning sermon
In the second chapter of Luke
there are three references
to the baby Jesus
lying in a manger
the word ‘lying’
signifying being placed there
by someone else
the same reference appears
three times in Luke 23
regarding Christ’s body in the tomb
beyond the symbolism
of three
as complete and perfect
— holy holy holy —
the message of Christ
from creche to crypt
is that in our humanity
we must
have help
Christ in his Manger-Bed. Lawrence OP. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0
But you, Bethlehem Ephrathah, Though you are little among the thousands of Judah, Yet out of you shall come forth to Me The One to be Ruler in Israel, Whose goings forth are from of old, From everlasting. —Micah 5:2
Ancient wonder is born anew this night
merry
angels
sing
Glory
merry
star
shines
bright
merry
is this ancient night, wonder born anew
Micah, 14 months, Christmas Eve
with apologies to Clement C. Moore
and mice
‘Twas the night before the night before the night before Christmas
when all through the house
or at least under the kitchen sink
and in the SILVERWARE DRAWER
a creature WAS stirring
yes a mouse
what to my horrified eyes should appear
in the morning
amongst the forks and spoons
—you can imagine—
ICK ICK ICK
so off to the hardware store
we flew like a flash
for D-Con and such…
all we could score…
I spoke not a word but went straight to my work
of rodenticide, with my newfound arsenal
after disinfecting and sanitizing everything in sight
—dash it all, dash it all, dash it all—
tidy, furry, and cute (?)
works from a distance
or maybe in fiction
definitely NOT in my kitchen
with visions of vermin
dancing on spoons
(among other things)
I keep shuddering and scrubbing
in spite of myself
happy Christmas to all
and to all a good-night
except the poor mouse
no more in my house…
Santa Claws: the greeting card (Project 365: 348/365). tehchix0r. CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.
Is it too late to ask Santa for one more thing?
Farmer’s Almanac says stock up
on flannel, hot chocolate, snowshoes…
winter is only one day old
and rumbling thunder
corroborates the prophecy
—snow in the next ten days?
Let us see
if it comes to be
Woodsmoke-scented air
Invokes peace, comfort, sacrifice
Nut-seeking squirrels scurry
Tentative deer appear, pricking their ears
Early night descends with a chill…
Retreat. Rest. Be still.
lit bits and pieces 