Poems for our season by Helette and Adrien

Helette Gagnon

 

HALLOWED GROUND

Jesus lies on my front lawn                   

Middle Eastern roots

exposed, shrivelled,

bone frosted…look…

 

Crown of thorns askew,

sandy hair dishevelled,

hemp sandals lost,

loin cloth in tatters.

His hands and feet

wine coloured gashes.

 

What will the neighbours say?

Test, curse, warning, blessing?

 or, Magic realism?

I feel the Lions lurking.

 

I could extend a vinegary sponge,

an olive branch,

find ways to repent or

play it festive with strings

of multi-coloured lights.

 

Maybe, I should wrap Him in

burlap, let the earth receive

let the season bury as it pleases.

 

Instead, veiled behind curtains,

I stand alert watching for a Resurrection.

 

All I need is a nod or a wink

to take this Bearded Wonder in.

                                                                by Helette Gagnon

**********

and from Adrien Helm,

Adrien Helm

 

 Christmas Memory

              by Adrien Helm

 

A touch of Italian Renaissance

The plaster figures appeared

From Christmas-drunken

Impulse of my Manhattan

Working father – store window

Display transfixing his

Passing glance and capturing

Some part of his wallet!

My mother’s eyes lit up –-

Her imagination surged—

Where to put?  How to style?

A wooden berry basket

Became the stable,

Hay was found,

Boughs arranged,

The sideboard

Magically swept Eastward

From commonplace buffet

To holiday display.

Shepherds crowded

Stunned and musical,

People hurried by, or

Turned their backs—

Animals knelt beside

The penitent innkeeper,

Come to worship the fuss.

The empty manger only

Peopled on Christmas Eve –

Magi lurked in the wings

Awaiting Epiphany’s cue.

 

One Christmas Day we left

A candle lit as we fled

To church, four spirit-drenched

Children in tow.

Returned to find

The crèche a little singed

From careless fire

Less than holy. Mary’s

Flowing blue and serene mien

As tarnished as Cinderella’s;

Joseph very much worse for wear

Than casual fatherhood imposed.

The Babe survived and I,

Ever on the look out for

“Back ups,” scour tag sales

To people this family treasure.

It sprawls just now

Within my sight. A fancier

Structure, complete with stalls

Replaced the charred basket.

As I bring the figures

From their tissue nest each year

I look into their eyes and

Let their gaze hold mine,

Focusing again across the years

Of this Christmas memory.

 

                                                                        January 2019

something old (and older); something new (and newer)

 For babes and candle makers

December 12, 2021

 

Children at deep blue hem
Our Lady of Guadlupe’s, maybe,
maybe today, her day now and then
here and there

there as cherubim at her hem
seeming safe maybe even at play yes
displaying baby sense of happiness
more than awe or reverence

a day to note her appearance,
her beauty, the new world inherent
in her being in the sky,
mother of god, indigenous, and us
grand children of god, then,
to be regarded as such,
hidalgos of eternity
if any be or ever were

worthy of candles
lit for her sake, today,
and for all candle makers
here and there, anywhere

[and for the dead in Mayfield, Kentucky]

 

            Sylvia Manning, Dec. 12, 2021, Glover VT

December 12, 2011

(as noted for Our Lady of Guadalupe)

 

black cat crosses

backyard winter rye

            (crayon kelly green

covering after long

awaited latest autumn

            rain

the obscenely sad losses

of other grasses

            beneath pecan trees

            alive but just

            and this year

            giving us

            no fruit)

                                         Sylvia Manning

                                    published in Waterways, Dec. 2020
                                                        written 2011 in journal, Seguin TX 

                                                                                                

Bringing in the Buddha

(in response to Huffstickler’s poem, The Way of Art)                                    

         
Dear poet my friend
it’s not cold enough yet
to bring the buddha in
from slab of granite
beside little river some will call a brook.

Last year a man (yes, a friend)
without an understanding
for our need in our spiritual poverty
            for ceremony,
            its poetry

lugged the buddha in like a piece of rubbish
without so much as a fare-thee-well.
Winter (an easy one, some will say)
           was hell.

This autumn has been kind.
There is still no cure
for hot and cold
as Pema Chödron knows

 

but a day may be left
when we are not bereft of Light and Love
from, in reality and poetry,    
          the heavens.

 

If we can bring this broken buddha in
even when the doing requires due care
for the cracked and patched
            piece of resin it is

will we call it dear, dear poet friend?
May we call it art? When we bring the buddha in

be s/he Jesus or a medium just sitting
            to take a stand

for beings in the millions to some true magnitude
some many (if not most of them) Magdalene-hued.

 

                                     Sylvia Manning, 10-27-21, Glover VT,                                                                                                                             published with changes suggested by

                                             Richard Spiegel in November, 2021 issue of
                                            Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream (NYC)

The Wildcard, poem by Scott Norman Rosenthal

 

                           The Wildcard

 

When I pulled it from my sleeve, it was a small deer,

  a “hart."                                                                                                                                    

With a wild song and a lasso

 I chased it;

It turned into a cricket

 and regarded me

like a lover, suddenly gone cold.

 

 When I picked it up,

it was a Queen of Hearts,

 too late to finish the hand.

 

                (Scott Norman Rosenthal;, 1977)