Like Tinsel Strung around the World

Like tinsel strung around the world,

Spiraling from needled branch to star,

We glitter with transparent light

That transports us beyond horizons far.

Along these lines, we lift our sight

Across the oceans wide and mountains tall.

We’re sewn together, somehow, in the squall.

It’s not the same as what the past has brought,

But it’s enough

To weather what this waning year has wrought.

 

 

This year may bring many of us a different kind of Christmas - perhaps a bit more isolated, a bit less filled with the presence of family and friends. For me, I am spending it in Nairobi, Kenya, and so am far from the family I usually see around this time. But I am fortunate to be able to see them over the computer, which helps me to remember that we remain connected despite the distance.

Stretching toward the Rain

Someday when the rains

Come,

We’ll find new food again.

But until then,

We’ll wait

And stretch what quantity remains,

Some

Each day to put upon a plate.

This is a final poem inspired by my time in northern Ghana. Part of the work we're doing there involves identifying poor and vulnerable members of communities, who are most in need of assistance to build durable toilets. In this context, one of the indicators of poverty is that a household is not able to feed itself throughout the entire year. Sometimes, people who fall into this category are referred to as "June/July people", because those months occur around the end of the dry season, when the harvest from the previous rainy season may run out. In this poem, I experimented a bit with very short lines (sometimes with only one syllable). One reason for this is that I think it aligns with the poem's theme of stretching what you have for as long as you can. A second reason is that I think the short lines help to add emphasis. For example, the second line increases the importance of the word "come", suggesting that the narrator is imploring, begging the rain to arrive soon. Similarly, in the seventh line, I think that emphasizing "some" implies a certain cautiousness - the need to be very careful about how much is consumed each day.

Waking to a Sliver of the Moon

Rise today to greet the morn before the dawn

When skies are dark and stars are bright and streets are still,

As the city sleeps, still hot without the sun,

While memories of dreams before deflect the quill

Which writes of present day.

Like a freshly filed fingernail, austere,

A sliver of the moon appears without a flaw.

Almost all in shadow, lunar light shines clear.

What little of this world I’ve known, I stand in awe,

And so I hope to stay.

 

 

This was another poem I wrote while in Ghana. Actually, this one came about very early in the trip. The morning after I arrived in Accra, the capital city, I needed to wake up very early for another flight to the northern part of the country, where we were working. As I was going to the airport, I saw a very thin crescent moon in the sky - very close to a new moon, but a small sliver of the surface was still shown in light. I wrote this poem during that morning's short flight.

Autumn's Lullabies

Dark eyes press against the glass.

What do they see in the moonlight,

In the silver stars that touch the grass?

The shadows of September loom,

When the hours of night the day surpass,

A prelude to October’s country

Where spirits gather beyond their doom

And dance their macabre scene.

Mountains rise, black-green

Against the backdrop of the night,

A phosphorescent glow beneath the moonlight,

But all the frights

Of devil, demon, wraith, and wight

Diminish before the morning

As stars, like angels, cast their lights

And break the latent bonds between

The visions and the eyes.

Chaos dissolves in falling leaves

Of laughter and autumn’s lullabies,

And the little one who grieves

In early, long November sleeves

Knows, soon enough, true life again will rise.

 

 

This poem comes a bit late in the year, given the months it mentions. It was loosely inspired by October Country, Ray Bradbury's collection of horror/fantasy short stories, and Something Wicked This Way Comes, his horror/fantasy novel. Personally, I find Ray Bradbury's writing to be very poetic and evocative. Although his short stories don't always end hopefully, the novel does, and so this poem does as well.

When Angels Dream

When angels dream

Beside the calm of heaven’s stream

Within a golden forest glade

Where branches overlap and braid

The silver starlight’s gleam,

What sights enshrine your haloed heads

And blossom in ambrosial beds

Of purely known unconsciousness?

What dreams arise when all is less

Than where you lie?

My dreams are less than yours, I think,

For my imperfect thoughts will shrink

And shrivel, fallen leaves that dry

Beneath a swollen sunlit sky.

But when your thoughts are close at hand,

My own proceed to fly and stand

Like trees that drink from deeper stores.

The golden forest stream explores

The higher realms that angels share.

With you as guide, I’m nearer there.

And so, I ask, so selfishly,

If once, tonight, you’ll dream of me.

 

 

I was in northern Ghana for work the past two weeks, and I wrote this poem on my way home, during a short flight that brought me back to Accra, the capital city, before continuing on to Kenya. I had the title phrase in my head as a starting place, but the poem eventually became a bit more personal. In my mind, it became about asking questions related to people who have passed on: Where have they gone? In the place where they are, do they dream? If so, what are their dreams? Do they look back toward the people they knew during their lives? And, if they do dream of us, can we feel it?

The Dreams beyond the Dunes

To cross the threshold of the dunes

With straw-green grasses waving in the wind

And glimpse the crystal crests on blue-green gray

Advancing far until the tides rescind,

Each layer breaking over layer

And tumbling toward the steady shore,

Rumbling then releasing all its spray

As it splays across the sandy floor,

Reveals a mirror for the lives

That come and go, yet linger on

To soak into the souls of those

Remaining on the dunes when they have gone.

And one who stays is wondering

Where waves will wander after they have passed

That far off, strange, unknown horizon.

What currents come? What dreams will last

To reach the ancient shores of Avalon,

Where what was once, one day may be again,

And all transform to queens and kings

Whose lives of love will be remembered then?

 

 

My grandma passed away on Friday night. She was 99 years old, and she felt ready to move on. I was in some other parts of Kenya this week, on a trip preparing for some work we will be starting soon (I'll be sharing some pictures, and at least one other poem, eventually), and I found out as I was traveling back to Nairobi yesterday. During some of that long, all-day drive, I wrote this poem, which combines some ideas I've had in my head for a while with this more recent news. Those ideas relate to some time I spent with my family at the beach (Stone Harbor, NJ), which was a special vacation spot for my grandparents as well. They also relate to some concepts from Arthurian legends (the island of Avalon).

 

One more note: I had a dream last night, in which I was on a walk with Grandma. This was nice for at least two reasons. First, she's been in a wheelchair for a while, so the fact that she was walking was significant. Second, after I woke up, it made me think of the hymn "In the Garden" ("And he walked with me..."), which was a favorite of hers. We had talked about me playing this hymn at her funeral. While I won't be able to do that right now, it was nice to have the experience I did in a dream - sort of like the end of the poem suggests (which, I'll reiterate, was written before that dream happened...)

The Winds of Change

It’s indescribable,

Yet somehow undeniable

For me, as I reflect on where I’ve come

Through all the years and all the weary

Moments. Imperceptible

Has been the silent hum

Of choirs undeterrable

In days of sun or darkness cold and dreary.

 

Leaves rustle,

Branches bend,

And all the busy, excess bustle

Can fall away to point me toward a blend

Of what my life should always be

And how my soul is most complete.

The winds of change surrounding me

Have brought me back for us, again, to meet.

 

 

 

I wrote this poem a while ago but never shared it, for some reason. Maybe I was waiting for the right time. Given my recent move to Nairobi, Kenya, it seems appropriate now. My first month here has felt extremely busy and hectic, but I've enjoyed it a lot. I'm working with some wonderful people, and I think we're going to be doing some very interesting and impactful work together.