I'm Through

I'm through
being blue.
perhaps I'll be
red instead.

still, I have been
told:
use all the colors
in my box of crayons
so perhaps I'll
settle
for
magenta

Leaving Marks

jumping the stile at an
unguarded place, we avoid
the gatekeepers and their
sour smiles, using all the
pigments at our fingertips
to leave our mark on those
blank spaces left carelessly
pristine--yes, I was
here--along with Kilroy,
and scratched my images
so they can be seen beside
lush landscapes, under
no lesser light than
the sun bearing down

Portraits

portraits, like old friends,
line the walls, this one an
old familiar, the strokes
bringing the curl of his lip
to life

as if
he might speak
at any moment

the ancient hues, the light
and dark mixes, almost
photographic, their words,
unspoken,

hang heavy in the air, paragraphs
untold, furling out in
your future dreams

The Door Opens

so the door opens, color
upon color revealed, line
upon line intersecting finely,
cool geometries and supple
curves to enchant the eye

all along the majestic river,
the rainbow colors furl out in
a variety of forms and
methodologies, catalogued
neatly in black and white

the sinuous forms and the
straightedged, the bleak and
the blooming set forth alongside
this engine of industry ever flowing
past, through the green and rock

framing rushing water, bearing us
all towards our end, mooring,
for a moment, at this shore
before we are away again

Vessel

now shelved, the glossy sheen
of her finish reflects the faces

who gaze upon the fineness of her lines, her comrades,
the broken vessels, recall their

daily use, containing water, wine,
oil, grain

celebrated for their usefulness,
for what would come forth

from the hollow of their beings,
some warmth, some sustenance,

some relief after the beating of
the sun, searing, upon their heads,

sighing, now, the sherds are envious of
their celebrated sister, whispering once,

once, we were, we were, we were, as you

Who is She?

and who is she, writing upon
walls, the words streeling,
lopsided, until they drop

down to the floor and run
off to the street, capitals
and lowercase alike, the

signage liberated so that
all the words mingle and
rearrange themselves into

fresh paragraphs to assault the
eyes with their sheer audacity,
verbs upon nouns, towering

adjectives, large looming adverbs,
shot through with flashes of
color, ribbons of scarlet, splotches

of mustard yellow, cadmium blue,
rushing out to form hasty
manifestos of art for
art's sake

forget the grocery list and
the absence note, the
letter to the editor, tonight

the words will gambol like
Blake's lambs, innocent, free
to say
whatever they will

Blank Canvas

we'll start with a blank canvas
and work from there, each
twisting of the wrist bringing
forth some new nuance
to wonder over

the tints, mixed, so, to match
your eyes, the shading of light
and dark in your smile,
the unequal mixing of talent

and aspiration--you set out
to make a table, and, somehow,
end up with a chair

nonetheless, it is a good chair--
you will rest on it and witness
myriad sunsets, the colors woven
through them like threads, the
ends broken off with the grinding
of one tooth upon another

15th December Reading - Christmas/Holiday-themed poems - THE PEEKSKILL ARTS ALLIANCE ART SHOW & SALE @ the HAT FACTORY

Poems read at the Hat Factory on 15th December in conjunction with The Peekskill Arts Alliance Art Show & Sale, Suite 10, 1000 North Division Street, Peekskill, New York 

(Art Show and Sale: 30th November -22nd December, Saturday and Sunday 11-5 p.m.)

15th December 2013

Natal Star

His natal star rises still,

Eastwards, beacon-bright, burning

through the fog like a hot

knife through butter cut into

the pudding, fruit-thick, we stirred

and wished upon

and herself only half-done

with the Christmas shopping,

moving, so, from dark into

light, she loops great

strands, twinkling round

her wrists, her reflection tinsel-ribboned

for the Christmas:

baking great cakes of currants

and ginger, fragrant as

the first gifts to

an infant child

smiling upon us after

Adam stumbling and

spilling all those apples

upon the earth

and bang—go the

crackers

and bang—go our

hearts

when we realize

His saving grace

moving from the basement

crawlspace with the boxes,

back into the light,

bearing gifts from their hiding place—

and out of wrapping paper again,

and down to the shops,

and the post office,

and the grocery,

to pile up gifts of grace,

perhaps, for Him

  

Journey

  

we come, bearing gifts, across

deserts, green-brown patchworks of fields, guided

by those stars we seek out, blazing

away like the fire stoked in the

furnace, warming hearth and home and

heart

and we wait, too, for the

cards carrying the annual weather report, proud

robin preening in his gilt border, puffed

out breast a drop of blood against the

snow (when seen at a distance), scent

of balsam and pine surrounding one,

the ranks of gingerbread soldiers

amassing in airtight tins, raisin-studded,

crisply brown and fragrant, promising

that Christmas will, indeed, return, as

surely as the clock tolls twelve and the

candles are extinguished only to be

lit again, light piercing through darkness,

needle through the dark cloth in which

we were shrouded

  

  

Seasonal Photograph

  

the image of you, a year

older, taken in a State park in

the blazing sun is most un-Christmas-like,

though bordered by bells, tinsel, and holly

the green of cactus behind you, the

red of your pocket handkerchief will

have to do, the marking of another

year of lines, told in your visage, of

the ordinary passage of time

balanced by the words of some ancient hymn

of celestial words and promises as

familiar as your intake of breath, the

tapping, impatient, of your fingers, as the

days tick down towards puddings and

roasts, the blank boxes, bereft again of

their silken ribbons, their work done

Angel Voices

  

these celestial hordes, their angel

voices disturb the air pearl-thick with fog

obscuring distant lights, the glowing orbs

strung, necklace-like, along the dip

and rise of the metal spines of a

distant bridge

while we wrestle with rolls of paper,

order hampers of food and the

first snow, potently mixed with rain,

lashes against the pane, window into

the world beyond

corners squared off by telephone lines,

the demarcation of bordering hedges

overhung with lights boldly emblazoning the

way of that jolly old housebreaker,

stolid redsuited fellow, spreading good

cheer and leaving a trail of crumbs

in his wake, the glasses of milk only half-drunk

in his haste, best of all

houseguests with his wink and his

waddle, father of Christmas forgiving even

the naughtiest of children (so

that no one, ever, receives coal

anymore) given the new benchmarks,

progress reports, and

projections for the next quarter,

everyone given the benefit of all our

doubts,

ripe for self-improvement in six easy steps

Vigil

  

so the silks and lace rustle,

perfume rising, warm on this

vigil night, the

long lists gone over twice and

twice again, the unlovely long

weeks of January pushed further

from the mind in favor of

this candlelight and the petals of red flowers

in flaming circles bordered by green,

suffused in pinescent, thickribboned,

again, in red and the

organ resounds with familiar

strains and dark is made light again,

night made day and

the gifts are opened with a

snip of the ribbon the

next morning, the carpet littered

with a thickness of paper waded

through like fall leaves, the

scent of breakfast still hanging heavy in

the kitchen, the

pot scalded, again, for tea

  

New Year

  

another blank copybook opens, waiting

to be filled with copperplate

resolutions (before we’ve lost

everything but a stub of a pencil and

the back of an old envelope, only

slightly torn) and the rosy glow of

New Year’s dinner not yet worn off and

perhaps a freshclean blanket of snow

mirroring your newmade soul and

for at least one moment

all seems possible, and, maybe,

even likely

  

Angel Wings

  

out of the Christmas box she

comes, again wingless, her

angel wings must be glued on,

glued on, glued on, every year for as long

as he can remember, her winsome

red-painted mouth puckered into a

bow, about to bestow a kiss eternally

wings drying, in a safe spot, she

waits for Christmas roses to

bring the bloom to her cheeks again, the

hothouse flowers crowded thick

amongst the lilies and the hyacinth,

not for them the four smooth walls of

a cardboard box—no they are

born to glory only to die and rejoin the

earth, while she stares on, blue-eyed,

golden haired, forever in an attitude

of arrested flight

  

Lights in Winter

  

lighting lights we remind ourselves

that the winter is but a long

night and that the heat of

summer, spent basking, like a

lizard, in the sun, will come again

and the green proliferation obscuring the

blue of sky, that, too, will return

the miracle of light that

pierces darkness,

the flash of a jeweled brooch piercing a coat,

glinting beneath an electric light, small

suns to remind us of

that largest sun breaking through

the darkness to light our way

Sugared

  

tinted granules of sugar melt

and harden into pools of

green and red, the colors of the Spring we

are promised throughout the

darklong weeks of winter, the

berries bloodred against the

white of snow, the shining snow

glared upon by the sun, the

sacrificial dinner of fat-

slaughtered goose upon the

table, while the sparrows peck

outside the door, hungry for a

few crumbs to drop down from

this heaven of munificence, the

rick-rack of apron twitches, striving always

for perfection, the candy stripes echoing

those embroidered upon

the napkins, quick hands arranging

landscapes of mirror and cottonwool flecked

with iridescent specks, catching the beams from

twinned candles, waxy tapers slim, red, burning bright

   

Virtual Holiday

  

Christmas is virtually here.

Santa has been emailed and his

website has left

cookies on my computer and

the drones have read the bar-

codes and are preparing, 10, 9, 8,

to drop the season’s bounty

curbside

instagramming Grandmas post

virtual cookies and Christmas

wishes are tweeted out 140

characters at a time, and

the YouTube Christmas card blares out, and

Santa sends an email back

with several links and a

“like” button for his Facebook page

Christmas is virtually here.

  

Exodus

  

the exodus of the child into

a foreign land

is not so strange

it happens every day, though the

faces of the tax collectors and

the soldiers change

the journey, tiresome and

wearying,

waiting to see which way

the wind blows, depending

upon dreams and visions,

creased heavily with cares,

last minute luggage packed hastily, but

the baby gifts placed carefully

at the bottom of the case,

redolent of riches, incongruous,

strange, yet predestined

So Much…..

  

so much to do that even

an army of elves wouldn’t be

a help, better, so, to do it

on her own—who cares if it

takes all night, or occasions

comment on her listless eyes,

raised—again, at the sight

of the deliverymen, heavy-laden,

striding towards her door and

the hundred undone things unspooling

as the spindle of ribbon loosened and

tumbling down the stairs

tangling, finally, in the cat’s paws,

praying, sometimes, for the

peace of January

  

A Chara, Mo Chroi

  

and you said you would be

sorry were the time to come

when letters would no longer

reach your mailbox

and the annual letter arrives,

white as snow, ivory oblong, heavily stamped,

addressed in chickenscratch,

informing me that the trees,

fallen to some tree-disease, have

been uprooted and, in their place,

new ones, a fast-growing variety, planted

down, black earth tamped thickly around

their roots, a promise of years to come

and now your voice is carried to

me through the howl of wind seeking to

breach the storm door as I wait, endlessly,

and would I could open the door to

receive you in, to jaw over old

landscapes, new painted, the honeycomb of paths, squared,

we once walked, and this is

my Christmas letter to you, a chara, mo chroi

Grey Pearl

  

grey pearl of sky draws

down around earth so

quiet-blanketed in white

footsteps are muffled and

all quiet save for the

occasional scrape of

metal against pavement

shuddering up

shrubbery bearded

in a temporary disguise

of white, icicles hanging from

the eaves a toothy grin

of cold

imperfect fields of green and brown now

perfected white, shine

back, glittering now, under the

sun, eye-blinding bright

  

New Year

  

the song resounds: another year

done, another yet to begin

the muddied pages of the

desk diaries changed for new

the scrawls of March and

April as indecipherable as

Sanskrit to your tired eyes, the

days slipped by too fast, tied

up now with ribbons and good

intentions, the slipknots wound

round the needles, fashioning a

new garment for a new year

when all

shall be

in abundance

  

Bird of Dawning

  

the bird of dawning singeth all

night long and so

rends her rest to pieces

shattered as the curved

metallic sherds on the carpet

fallen from her hands

reflecting on the

bells tolling twelve

singing, ringing, then

peace in the absence

of sound

needles fall silently, thick

with pinescent, unlovely side

pushed to the wall, garlanded

gold, crowned with a

single star

Beneath the Constellations

  

beneath the constellations

bells are ringing, bells are ringing

beneath the starry skies

we are singing, we are singing

of that night so long ago,

of those words threading through

this tapestry of night, blue-

dark, lit by that singular star of

fire, heralded by

an angel choir

Tangle-Thick

  

this tangle-thick of corded

lights confound one, yet we

persist, determined to

light the way of others

with garlands of red and

green and white-hot

illumination, pale cousins

of those new suns perpetually

being born

while deliverymen come, bearing

gifts, to the door

and the sphinx still stares,

impassive, across Egyptian sands

under the thronging stars

Burning Daylight

  

burning daylight with those

ordinary tasks after the season

has expired and all is quiet:

jewel-bright ornaments, small

mirrors, placed back in their

boxes, egg-fragile, shimmering

crimson, gold, eggplant-purple, back to

the attic they go, their

service done for another year,

each burnished with a thick

layer of memory, of that year or

another, touched with tender hands,

supremest care

  

Our Song, Now Done

  

and now that our song is

done

birds throng on the

boughs,

angels stir the air

and

all will be merry

the chill winds

blow

a fire leaps up

licking the coals

banishing sorrows

Poetry Reading, Sunday 15th December, 3:00 p.m.@ the Hat Factory in Peekskill, NY.......

Sunday 15th December

3:00 p.m.

Hat Factory

Suite 10

1000 North Division Street

Peekskill, NY

http://www.peekskillartsalliance.org

POETRY READING / McCarra-Fitzpatrick / Sunday 15th December / 3:00 p.m. at the Hat Factory in Peekskill, NY

15th December 2013

3:00 p.m.

POETRY READING

in conjunction with 

THE PEEKSKILL ARTS ALLIANCE

ART SHOW AND SALE @ THE HAT FACTORY

Suite 10 at the Hat Factory

1000 North Division Street

Peekskill, NY

www.peekskillartsalliance.org