Misneach

What is it about this word
From a dead language
That rolled off the tongues
Of your ancestors?
It propels all things,
Informs all things,
From flower to newborn.
Be up and doing.
Here's to the one who rallies,
The one who puts his chin up
And presses on —
With goodness in his heart.
Misneach, say it loud with
A Scottish burr.
Learn to labor,
Learn to hope.

My Grandfather's Ghost on Christmas Day

Born in Bermuda
enroute from the Azores,
he came to Fall River,
this boy in woolen knickers
whose chocolate eyes
he would give my mother.
He grew to hate the shackle
of the bell in the mill tower
that tolled the shift changes,
the days, the years, the lives.
He saw all of it ahead of time
in one instant, and wanting
no part of that agony,
he left, at 16, on
a freezing October night,
hitchhiked to Canada,
lied about his age, and
joined the Black Watch.
One hundred years ago,
to the day,
on December 25, 1914,
in the forests of France,
hearing shouts of "Merry Christmas"
in German accents,
he emerged from his foxhole,
walked into the mud
of no-man's land,
And gave a soldier
chocolate and cigarettes,
the same soldier he
would kill with a bullet
the next morning.
Maybe the memory
gave him his rage,
for he was not spared:
The pain and the alcohol tore
everything to shreds —
and the wounds have taken
a century to form thick scars.

'Twas the Night Before

As I understand it, the story
Goes something like this:
The birth took place in a stable,
And the infant was laid in a manger —
A long open box for feeding animals.
It involved a mother and a father,
A baby, a star, and hope.
Define this hope as you like,
But something tells me
It was the kind that is suffused with love.
Three wise men came bearing gifts
Of gold, frankincense, and myrrh,
Guided by an unusually bright star.
It also had to do with humility —
This child was not born in a palace
And laid in a cradle of gold,
Lined with costly silks.
He entered this world in a stable,
Surrounded by donkeys and oxen,
With their brays and grunts
And rank animal scents.
He slept away the early hours of life
In the rough-hewn wood
And scratchy hay
Of a feeding trough.
He was born there because
There was no room for him.
How do I make room?

Nina on the Mound

The day was clear.

The wind was cold.

They came to play

At Pigeon Cove.

Gloucester arrived

With mighty bats

Only to meet up

With Nina’s wrath.

She threw. They swung.

Never had a chance.

The speed of the ball

Put them in a trance.

Strike one. Strike two.

Strike three … you’re out!

We won! We won! We Won!
Nina’s teammates shout.

In Christmas Week

He rises in the dark and

Sees the sliver of moon

Above the skeletal trees,
With the tessellation of stars
In the lavender gap
Of the lingering night.

Looking southwest toward the tangle

Of roads and highways running outward,

His reflection presses back at him

In the glass, and he spots the solitary
White-yellow light across the yard

Of a neighbor up early.
The stars sparkle ornamentally at this hour —

Promising the pure possibility that not all

Gets lost and everything harmonizes.

The dealer doles out bad cards
Some days, but the bet today,
On this morning, seems worth it.

When the warranty expires,
The breakdown occurs,

And the complaints win out,
The stakes suddenly don't feel so high.
In the confines of the earthly, still humming,

— The lady moon so lifeless but so serene —

In memory headed west and haloed by her

Sisters, the stars, far above and infinite,
His reflection fades from behind the glass.

When I Am On the Island

I think of ghosts — 

Of former selves,

Of my grandparents,

Of my late brother,

Who celebrated every

August 10 birthday there.

Summer this far north 

Exudes a ghost-like quality,

The undeniable feeling

Of time slipping,

And endings 

Wrapped up

With beginnings.

Slow down,

I remind myself.

Be fixed like the island itself.

And when I am on

Some city street, in winter,

I think of the yellow

Gingerbread cottage

On the knoll,

Up from the cove,

Still and silent,

The musty books

Lining the shelves,

The faint burnt smell of

Last autumn's final fire

Spicing the cold 

Pockets of air,

The knick-knacks

Frozen in time,

Ready to emerge

In the summer sunshine.

Thanksgiving, 2014

Years from now
I never want
To forget

How we went

Around the table

Late that afternoon,
When blackness
Pressed against
The windows,

How we talked about

Gratitude and what

Gem lay in each of us,

How my

80-year-old father

Teared up

At the words spoken,

How, between turkey and pie,

A cluster of us

Walked to the beach

In the cold clarity of the air,

Tossing the football,

Trying to catch
It in the dark,

How later

We sang and laughed,

How everything 

Froze for one precious,

Priceless moment,

Enveloped in light.