The Winter Of A Potential Malcontent

wpid-20140212_145037.jpgFor a long and frozen moment
Moments of dark and cold fall over us
Weapons of malcontent
I might have known
War zone trauma
Traumatized by Pax
So close to peace, its wretched name
Trees break, grunt, moan
Fall from the sky, war wounded
Like bombs extinguishing
Life from the day
Exploding
Last week’s tulips bow in mourning
My shoulders
Rise to my ears in fear
A mortar of pine and oak, ice and pine
Will land on this
World of mine
Repetition of a death march
Battle weary are we

The talking head said
To fight cabin fever
Stay hydrated, move,
Stimulate your mind
All creativity is drying up
Going up in smoke with the fire
That is now our world, hovering round
The hearth of the home
2014 reeks of 1814

No power no water
No light
Disconnection sets in
Dirty and cold

The piano, frozen
As am I
Spoiled by Pandora and Spotify
Times like this we wish
We could remember to play
Ebony and ivory

The winter will not be a victor
I refuse to bow down and give in
Lonely and cold
Dark and restlessness
Quiet and routine bully my soul
My white flag, were I to raise it
Would not be seen

We are adrift in a sea of white
And grays color the soul

Though I know Spring, like the tide will rise
And the sun will burn
Ice will melt
And yes
We will dance and feast, warm our souls
On the heat of the earth
The tyranny of the urgent is ruling the day
Heavy handed and cruel
I will not lie down in defeat

For these are the days
The right here times
When the battle is on
And in full swing
I armor up with
Flashlight in hand
And the words
Always
Words will shift the balance of power
Ravenous and hungry
I devour her words.

At first I sat with “Booked”
In my hands
Propped in the threshold of the front door
Squeezing the light out of the day
As the earth stood nearly still
When an early visitor came to call
Nightfall
And darkness
And I like a child rolled up in a ball
Fought hard against tears
Formed from the  words
As they lept from the page

I battle-scarred

Seeking solace
I remain
Held captive, nearly numb
Frozen in place

Now thawed by Prior
And her words
Held
In a warm embrace
Safe from Pax, seeking
Peace
Inside the pages

Of “Booked”

Just Give Me All The Children’s Books

There is this line of Pooh that shows up time and time again.
You painted lines on your stairs
And left them there when that house sold.
Poetry on the stairs and ragged Pooh propped there too.
Folded worn out bear.
A tribute on the stairs.
But you took Pooh with you, as you always did.

You gave her Pooh in Latin, the only
Octogenarian in the home with Latin Pooh bedside.
If I doubted before I knew for certain then
That this branded deep a generation, two or three
Around the prose of Milne.
You read it bedside night by night.
As children we were  lost in a friendship of a bear and boy.

We grew up in the hundred acre woods
And laughed at rotund bear and all his portly ponderings.
Each character mirrors men or women in our world.
You don’t look far before you see the Eeyore’s in your life.
And know those wearing their insecurities as Piglet did,
Poor pig and all his anxiety. Its not so funny after all.

You could write a book of all the metaphors of Pooh and you.
Him and you as child, adult
You and he and a language learned from Milne.
What would you do without your Pooh and maybe even visa versa.
Its as if he knows you too, the friendship runs so deep.

He must have felt your eyes, your hands, your heart
And all the love you dripped on pages in the dark.
And under cover, pages worn down and worn out from love of word.
What if there were no children’s books, after all they speak to all.
What if the books written for the young are really for the grown.

If I could choose I might pick a  pile of the treasures
Of my youth
To hide away and steal away, to bury in the corners of my heart,
While buried under quilt. To read of Charlotte, Wilbur and that
Giving tree, so generous and bare.
And even Dick and Jane, so plain so simple
So austere, life was simpler then.
Life was spelled out so plainly on a page.
There was Dick and there was Jane and that
Is really about all there ever was in 1960
Something, the books of my youth.

But Pooh was front and center in the home
As if he were crowned king.
And were it not for him I may not understand
The deep depression of a soul like Eeyore who
Sees the world, glass half empty every time
Always, never full.
And sweet momma Kanga, her precious mother’s
Heart, so nurturing and loving, so gentle in her ways.
Lost in the woods with Owl and the rest
Learning of life through a boy and his toys.
Of people in a world to come.

Just give me all the children’s books,
And let me read in peace.
Aren’t we all God’s children, after all.
We long to run and play and dream of animals that talk.
And get lost in the woods.
To read of talking spiders whose best friend is a pig.
To bend down low like Alice and talk to cats and hatters.
Why would we ever want to grow old and boring
When bears and honey and owls and donkeys make such wonderful
Companions, for the child in us, the playmates of our youth.

Its cold outside and I am curled up
I feel your warm breath on my neck,
Your smiles, your cadence, reading Pooh aloud.
And of all the places he has been within your life,
Woven through your days
He’ll also earn a place in church one day, far away,
As we say words, holy.
A proper ending to this line that runs throughout your life.
We know you well, we’ll pick the parts of portly Pooh
To read amid the sacred.

And Pooh will live another generation
Along with all the rest.
The children’s books that you loved
Will be loved for days and days to come.
You planted deep a love for Pooh
We honor you with the words of Milne
Every time they are read.
How did he know the smallest things take up
So much room, inside a heart, open wide for love,
A love for bear and books and more
And dear Mother, for you too.

Sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your hear.

A.A. Milne