Daughter Dreams (for Nina at one year)

Hushed as prayer,
She floats down
Into his arms
In the gliding chair
In her night-lighted room,
Her gentle cries now tucked
Between the petals
Of sleep, he delights
In his treasure:
The warm weight of her
Concentrated self —
From the fragrant blond whorl
At the top of her head
To her pajama-padded feet,
This exquisite newness
Upon whose smooth surface
The world has etched little,
Leaving all grace to linger,
How on this night,
in this moment,
He knows,
Where his
Spirit meets his bones,
That she will blossom
With the pure
power of possibility.

Home, Coming

There sits a house
On a high hill
With a clear view
Of the sea —
Up near heaven enough
To protect us
From the tempest.
The doors never lock.
Laughter dribbles
Down the walls.
Love drenches
All who enter —
Young and old.
My love is there,
Surrounded by
Family and friends.
Everyone gets heard
Through their hearts.
Everyone responds
With candor,
With kindness.

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.