tradition is more than yesterday’s stories
old photographs and dusty keepsakes
it is the remembering of tomorrow

it is the nervous acting out
of ceremony with candles and words
of an ancient story of wonder and light

it is the gladsome preparation
of the festive foods for the jolbord
and the pride of happy hosts

it is the gentle noise of children playing
the rumbling conversation of friends remembering
the tear in a grandparent’s eye

it is the leap in our hearts at midwinter’s turn
it is the song that ever celebrates life’s wonder

Sewn together out of old
flannel memories and work shirts of the past
a network of  veins
plumping generations of
angry blood
We carry traces of mean,
scared people
Terrible things
not fondly remembered
at reunions
And yet are present in the tapestry

But

There are many
kind
compassionate
beautiful souls as well

They are all on your tapestry
Know it
and display it well

We toil and toil tilling
With our sweat ******* the soil
Yet merrily singing our song
From the ****’ s crow till the sun
goes home.

The harvest is non- the - less
Still in music and songs
Trekking like to the end- of - the -
world
Load - laden till our necks go sore.

With stock in ban to feed the
whole clan
By moonlight we woo to win more
hands
Till mandiang comes back a - round
Bringing us to the start of the
round

/I dreamed that wrinkled fingers pointed me backward down the road to teach me about faith./

there’s this plastic imitation leather
peeling off of my steering wheel
and it caught the edge of my chin tonight:
like a fingernail if I closed my eyes.

I re-find that people are flawed,
that I value flaws in a certain lilt or lighting—
I fall deeply in love with confidence like that
but fail to pull it to my own cheeks.

we’re microwave dinners, have you noticed that?
showcasing our dreams in caricatures we later regret.
we’re rotating in heat—pressurizing for perfection,
warming our raw insides to blend with what we see.

(it felt like a fingernail if I closed my eyes.)

spines are expressive—they make us easier to read.
no spine is more inclined to bring eyes the rising sun than yours.
our spines are expressive—they make us easier to write.

Tales of riches in sequins
Like a lavish cloak of red
Swirling around to catch
The soft touch of raw skin

Each begins far away
A swarm of bees you can hear
But cannot see
And draws closer
Capturing your mind
And holding it
In an oscillating state
Between trance and attention

You see the rubies
Wish to steal them yourself
From the merchant
You wish to seek council
From the Grand-Visir
Thwart the wicked Sultan
And trick the Genius

The tales weave from one to another
They are a stream
Dispersing in a delta
But following each small stream
Meeting back at the source
In an unending circle
Of stories large or small

Stories of old men passing by
Of brother princes splitting land
Of merchants voyaging to trade
Of cunning daughters plotting

No corner of the world to far
No event not to be believed
No action too kind
No punishment too severe
No journey too long
No treasure too hidden

These tales are the life within human blood
The life that has no boundaries
And looks only for the sun

Waiting    listening    watching -
senses strain against
the darkness.

Dark gives way to gray
enough to see
deceptive shadows.

The woods stir slowly.
Chickadees speak, still sleepy.
Leaves rustle in the distance

alerting vigilant ears and eyes; inciting hope.
Scanning the ridge and shooting lanes, my eyes - then ears -
lock on rummaging squirrels.  

Cold hands slip back into pockets;
it tries to snow.
Ravens complain        back        and        forth.

Stillness -
then the rise of wind
through the trees.

Around eleven I walk to Dad’s stand.
Quiet talk and hot soup -
no deer.

The afternoon is spent, back against a Maple, with cautious thoughts comfortable enough to creep forward and linger in the peace of the woods.

I celebrate the culture of your face
because your face has a culture
with its very own traditions
like when your upper lip
covers your lower lip
when you're upset

Plush beads of summer rain gently kiss the windows,
pitter pattering steadily in contrast
to the low hums and stutters
of the red coffee ***
that saves many souls
lost in a daze of former slumber;
a lengthy stretch,
she leans back against the cream,
or maybe more ivory,
sofa couch,
wiggling it up and down her frame
and in its last push
released with a crack through the tips of her toes.

scrumptious smells of eggs and breakfast meats,
brunch is always her
favorite hour,
balancing the crisp texture of toast
against the delightful spritz
of OJ,
sometimes blended with a splash of something
sparkling.

the chords and rhythms that thrummed and purred,
the puttering, the humming, the stuttering,
a baritone chuckle
escaping his smirking mouth,
the moment so inescapably
charming,
how satisfying their ritual felt.