A Tidings of Magpies

Going into the fix-'em-up brain factory this morning, hoping the census is low and a few of us can go home early. Or not... Whatever the day brings, I plan to have a glass of bubbly in hand at midnight yelling out a welcome to the new year and a fare-thee-well to the old one. Wishing you and yours much joy and happiness in 2011. Resolutions?...I may have to fine tune a bit, but the sentiment above seems okay with me!

by Jeanne Marie Beaumont I think about the past. I empty the ice-cube trays crack crack cracking like bones, and I think of decades of ice cubes and of John Cheever, of Anne Sexton making cocktails, of decades of cocktail parties, and it feels suddenly far too lonely at my counter. Although I have on hooks nearby the embroidered apron of my friend's grandmother and one my mother made for me for Christmas 30 years ago with gingham I had coveted through my childhood. In my kitchen I wield my great aunt's sturdy black-handled soup ladle and spatula, and when I pull out the drawer, like one in a morgue, I visit the silverware of my husband's grandparents. We never met, but I place this in my mouth every day and keep it polished out of duty. In the cabinets I find my godmother's teapot, my mother's Cambridge glass goblets, my mother-in-law's Franciscan plates, and here is the cutting board my first husband parqueted and two potholders I wove in grade school. Oh the p

by Kenn Nesbitt A BB gun. A model plane. A basketball. A ‘lectric train. A bicycle. A cowboy hat. A comic book. A baseball bat. A deck of cards. A science kit. A racing car. A catcher's mitt. So that's my list of everything that Santa Claus forgot to bring.

by Timothy Steele Although the roof is just a story high, It dizzies me a little to look down. I lariat-twirl the rope of Christmas lights And cast it to the weeping birch's crown; A dowel into which I've screwed a hook Enables me to reach, lift, drape, and twine The cord among the boughs so that the bulbs Will accent the tree's elegant design. Friends, passing home from work or shopping, pause And call up commendations or critiques. I make adjustments. Though a potpourri Of Muslims, Christians, Buddhists, Jews, and Sikhs, We all are conscious of the time of year; We all enjoy its colorful displays And keep some festival that mitigates The dwindling warmth and compass of the days. Some say that L.A. doesn't suit the Yule, But UPS vans now like magi make Their present-laden rounds, while fallen leaves Are gaily resurrected in their wake; The desert lifts a full moon from the east And issues a dry Santa Ana breeze, And valets at chic restaurants will soon Be tending flock

by Michael Ryan At four o’clock it’s dark. Today, looking out through dusk at three gray women in stretch slacks chatting in front of the post office, their steps left and right and back like some quick folk dance of kindness, I remembered the winter we spent crying in each other’s laps. What could you be thinking at this moment? How lovely and strange the gangly spines of trees against a thickening sky as you drive from the library humming off-key? Or are you smiling at an idea met in a book the way you smiled with your whole body the first night we talked? I was so sure my love of you was perfect, and the light today reminded me of the winter you drove home each day in the dark at four o’clock and would come into my study to kiss me despite mistake after mistake after mistake. please note: photo art by Desert Vu .

by W.S.Merwin The long waves glide in through the afternoon while we watch from the island from the cool shadow under the trees where the long ridge a fold in the skirt of the mountain runs down to the end of the headland day after day we wake to the island the light rises through the drops on the leaves and we remember like birds where we are night after night we touch the dark island that once we set out for and lie still at last with the island in our arms hearing the leaves and the breathing shore there are no years any more only the one mountain and on all sides the sea that brought us

by Susan Elizabeth Howeby Ominous inscrutable Chinese news to get just before Christmas, considering my reasonable health, marriage spicy as moo-goo-gai-pan, career running like a not-too-old Chevrolet. Not bad, considering what can go wrong: the bony finger of Uncle Sam might point out my husband, my own national guard, and set him in Afghanistan; my boss could take a personal interest; the pain in my left knee could spread to my right. Still, as the old year tips into the new, I insist on the infant hope, gooing and kicking his legs in the air. I won't give in to the dark, the sub-zero weather, the fog, or even the neighbors' Nativity. Their four-year-old has arranged his whole legion of dinosaurs so they, too, worship the child, joining the cow and sheep. Or else, ultimate mortals, they've come to eat ox and camel, Mary and Joseph, then savor the newborn babe.

Dear Senator Voinovich, I am asking you to please reconsider a blind solidarity with the Republican Party and to vote the will of the American people and the citizens of Ohio on the Zadroga, 9/11 Bill now before the Senate. It is nothing but wrong to disallow compensation and healthcare assistance to the men and women who worked tirelessly at the WTC site for months on end and who now suffer the consequences of the toxic materials distributed there. Please honor those first responders who served our country in 2001 by assisting them in their time of need. Any more filibustering looks like exactly what it is--a silly, pathetic joke by folks who don't actually do the hard work at hand. I do not recall one senator pulling a dead body out of the rubble during that national tragedy. Your long speeches are not wanted here. Actual financial assistance is required. Make it work and get it done. Thank you for your time and thank you for a vote of support for first responders, FaceBook has

It's very quiet here this morning. HoneyHaired is at school taking her last exam of the quarter. Art History. Hubby's luxuriating in being back in bed after driving our grrrrl and the neighbor grrrrls to school this morning. It was my turn, but I bartered to drive extra shifts on a morning without so much snow and ice. I was thinking perhaps next summer. Birds are chattering away at the bird feeders in our front yard and I see glimpses of a fat furry tail scampering across the outside of our living room window. This fall we had a mama and baby squirrel constructing an elaborate nest outside our kitchen window. The baby would come out in the evenings at dinnertime and peek in, lifting his little paw on the screen like a hello. I don't know if it was the workmen who came to fix the gutters or a forewarning of the bitter wind that comes in from that western exposure, but the squirrels moved their home from the back of the house to a front window box where I hope they're mo

by Andrea Carlisle Monday Figure out what to wear—white dress? Put hair in bun Bake gingerbread for Sue Peer out window at passersby Write poem Hide poem Tuesday White dress? Off-white dress? Feed cats Chat with Lavinia Work in garden Letter to T.W.H. Wednesday White dress or what? Eavesdrop on visitors from behind door Write poem Hide poem Thursday Try on new white dress Gardening—watch out for narrow fellows in grass! Gingerbread, cakes, treats Poems: Write and hide them Friday Embroider sash for white dress Write poetry Water flowers on windowsill Hide everything

by John Haines Walking home through the tall Montana twilight, leaves were moving in the gutters and a little dust... I saw beyond the roofs and chimneys a cloud like a hill of smoke, amber and dirty grey. And a wind began from the street corners and rutted alleys, out of year-end gardens, weed lots and trash bins; the yellow air came full of specks and ash, noiseless, crippled things that crashed and flew again... grit and the smell of rain. And then a steady sound, as if an army or a council, long-skirted, sweeping the stone, were gathering near; disinherited and vengeful people, scuffing their bootheels, rolling tin cans before them. And quieter still behind them the voices of birds and whispering brooms: "This Land has bitter roots, and seeds that crack and spill in the wind..." I halted under a blowing light to listen, to see; and it was the bleak Montana wind sweeping the leaves and dust along the street.

The nose knows snow... please note: photo art by Arne Dedart

by Joseph Stroud Everywhere, everywhere, snow sifting down, a world becoming white, no more sounds, no longer possible to find the heart of the day, the sun is gone, the sky is nowhere, and of all I wanted in life – so be it – whatever it is that brought me here, chance, fortune, whatever blessing each flake of snow is the hint of, I am grateful, I bear witness, I hold out my arms, palms up, I know it is impossible to hold for long what we love of the world, but look at me, is it foolish, shameful, arrogant to say this, see how the snow drifts down, look how happy I am. please note: photo art by minimanjapan

"Freddie experienced the sort of abysmal soul-sadness which afflicts one of Tolstoy's Russian peasants when, after putting in a heavy day's work strangling his father, beating his wife, and dropping the baby into the city's reservoir, he turns to the cupboards, only to find the vodka bottle empty." — P.G. Wodehouse please note: above photo, Hugh Laurie. 'nuf said. Carry on, Jeeves...

Cruising with the Beach Boys by Dana Gioia So strange to hear that song again tonight Travelling on business in a rented car Miles from anywhere I've been before. And now a tune I haven't heard for years Probably not since it last left the charts Back in L.A. in 1969. I can't believe I know the words by heart And can't think of a girl to blame them on. Every lovesick summer has its song, And this one I pretended to despise, But if I was alone when it came on, I turned it up full-blast to sing along – A primal scream in croaky baritone, The notes all flat, the lyrics mostly slurred. No wonder I spent so much time alone Making the rounds in Dad's old Thunderbird. Some nights I drove down to the beach to park And walk along the railings of the pier. The water down below was cold and dark, The waves monotonous against the shore. The darkness and the mist, the midnight sea, The flickering lights reflected from the city – A perfect setting for a boy like me, The Cecil B.

please note: photo by kyfirefighter on flickr Thanksgiving has come and gone and my refrigerator and I are stuffed to the gills. I went off the skids this year; tried new recipes for the turkey and stuffing--Maple Glazed and Bourbon/Bacon. Both turned out surprisingly to be quite good. Even after the effects of the bourbon tasting had worn off. CollegeGrrrrl was only able to be home--actually in the house she was raised in--for about 5 minutes after visiting her grandmother in Indiana because of the horrible driving conditions and multiple weathermen threatening us with snow and icy roads. That was very disappointing for all of us and we owe her a dinner. She was here long enough for me to pack up some stuffing and rolls for her, but the turkey had just come out of the oven and was way too hot to carve. Protein is way overrated, though, and we do love our carbs here in the Distracted household. Cleared the table, divided food into Gladware and, utilizing very precise equations of phys

by Anne Porter Give praise with psalms that tell the trees to sing, Give praise with Gospel choirs in storefront churches, Mad with the joy of the Sabbath, Give praise with the babble of infants, who wake with the sun, Give praise with children chanting their skip-rope rhymes, A poetry not in books, a vagrant mischievous poetry living wild on the Streets through generations of children. Give praise with the sound of the milk-train far away With its mutter of wheels and long-drawn-out sweet whistle As it speeds through the fields of sleep at three in the morning, Give praise with the immense and peaceful sigh Of the wind in the pinewoods, At night give praise with starry silences. Give praise with the skirling of seagulls And the rattle and flap of sails And gongs of buoys rocked by the sea-swell Out in the shipping-lanes beyond the harbor. Give praise with the humpback whales, Huge in the ocean they sing to one another. Give praise with the rasp and sizzle of crickets, katydids and

by Lawrence Raab After we saw what there was to see we went off to buy souvenirs, and my father waited by the car and smoked. He didn't need a lot of things to remind him where he'd been. Why do you want so much stuff? he might have asked us. "Oh, Ed," I can hear my mother saying, as if that took care of it. After she died I don't think he felt any reason to go back through all those postcards, not to mention the glossy booklets about the Singing Tower and the Alligator Farm, the painted ashtrays and lucite paperweights, everything we carried home and found a place for, then put away in boxes, then shoved far back in our closets. He'd always let my mother keep track of the past, and when she was gone—why should that change? Why did I want him to need what he'd never needed? I can see him leaning against our yellow Chrysler in some parking lot in Florida or Maine. It's a beautiful cloudless day. He glances at his watch, lights another cigarette, looks u

It’s Sunday Morning in Early November by Philip Schultz and there are a lot of leaves already. I could rake and get a head start. The boy's summer toys need to be put in the basement. I could clean it out or fix the broken storm window. When Eli gets home from Sunday school, I could take him fishing. I don't fish but I could learn to. I could show him how much fun it is. We don't do as much as we used to do. And my wife, there's so much I haven't told her lately, about how quickly my soul is aging, how it feels like a basement I keep filling with everything I'm tired of surviving. I could take a walk with my wife and try to explain the ghosts I can't stop speaking to. Or I could read all those books piling up about the beginning of the end of understanding... Meanwhile, it's such a beautiful morning, the changing colors, the hypnotic light. I could sit by the window watching the leaves, which seem to know exactly how to fall from one moment to the next.

Make Each Day Count by Michael Chitwood On the way to the memorial service it started to snow, blanking our view of the moon's afternoon ghost, cold clock so white it was blue. The speakers' voices caught. They had to pause to continue. Beneath the lauds, the talk of deep friendship and a life well-lived, we heard the rasp of the maintenance crew's shovels, having had to come in on a Saturday. please note: art by Dan Bush

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, you know what I'm saying...a tasty Friday night treat.

Just wanted to mention I'm still here buzzing around. Worked the weekend. The usual--an undocumented Hispanic worker with traumatic brain injury from head vs baseball bat and a found down X 24hrs with an intracerebral hemorrhage and heroin abuse. Had an early meeting this morning with one of the fire chiefs of a neighboring township to go over survey questions for a study on "near-misses" and I'm trying to read up tonight for a get-together tomorrow with members of a potential research project I might work with--heat stress in fire fighters. I may be able to get funding to go full-time in the spring, but I still need to work my 36hrs/week and I carry the medical insurance, so I like to wake up at 3 or 4 o'clock in the mornings and see if I can make the puzzle pieces fall into place. So far they have not. I don't have to go full time, though it would be very, very nice to have tuition paid for. I'm trying to rationalize 15 credit hours as working overtime.

by Patricia Fargnoli Should the Fox Come Again to My Cabin in the Snow Then, the winter will have fallen all in white and the hill will be rising to the north, the night also rising and leaving, dawn light just coming in, the fire out. Down the hill running will come that flame among the dancing skeletons of the ash trees. I will leave the door open for him. please note: art by kjhayler

November, 1967 by Joyce Sutphen Dr. Zhivago was playing at the Paramount Theater in St. Cloud. That afternoon, we went into Russia, and when we came out, the snow was falling—the same snow that fell in Moscow. The sky had turned black velvet. We'd been through the Revolution and the frozen winters. In the Chevy, we waited for the heater to melt ice on the windshield, clapping our hands to keep warm. On the highway, these two things: a song from Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band and that semi-truck careening by. Now I travel through the dark without you and sometimes I turn up the radio, hopeful the way you were, no matter what.

Assignment #1: Write a Poem about Baseball and God by Philip E. Burnham, Jr And on the ninth day, God In His infinite playfulness Grass green grass, sky blue sky, Separated the infield from the outfield, Formed a skin of clay, Assigned bases of safety On cardinal points of the compass Circling the mountain of deliverance, Fashioned a wandering moon From a horse, a string and a gum tree, Tempered weapons of ash, Made gloves from the golden skin of sacrificial bulls, Set stars alight in the Milky Way, Divided the descendants of Cain and Abel into contenders, Declared time out, time in, stepped back, And thundered over all of creation: "Play ball!"

Enough by Jeffrey Harrison It's a gift, this cloudless November morning warm enough for you to walk without a jacket along your favorite path. The rhythmic shushing of your feet through fallen leaves should be enough to quiet the mind, so it surprises you when you catch yourself telling off your boss for a decade of accumulated injustices, all the things you've never said circling inside you. It's the rising wind that pulls you out of it, and you look up to see a cloud of leaves swirling in sunlight, flickering against the blue and rising above the treetops, as if the whole day were sighing, Let it go, let it go, for this moment at least, let it all go.

by Cindy Gregg On this first day of November it is cold as a cave, the sky the color of neutral third parties. I am cutting carrots for the chicken soup. Knife against carrot again and again sends a plop of pennies into the pan. These cents, when held to the gray light, hold no noble president, only stills of some kaleidoscope caught being pensive... and beautiful, in the eye of this beholder, who did not expect this moment of marvel while making an early supper for the hungry children. please note: art by John Atkinson Grimshaw

by William Shakespeare Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and caldron bubble. Fillet of a fenny snake, In the caldron boil and bake; Eye of newt and toe of frog, Wool of bat and tongue of dog, Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting, Lizard's leg and howlet's wing, For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and caldron bubble. Cool it with a baboon's blood, Then the charm is firm and good. Much to be done today. My own little witch is having friends over for a birthday/Halloween get-together, so room needs to cleared for 5 not-so-little-anymore little girls to run around. And before that a birthday lunch with Grandma PP and Auntie DD. We are vacuuming and baking and moving piles of very important, yet unread, papers from one site to another. And the dog follows diligently behind me shedding more hair to make up for its loss in the carpet. Hope your Hallowed Eves is spooky and that you are handi

a The Gospel of the Gospel by Michael Chitwood And the prophet said: "Let not your heart dwell in sadness, but be glad in the day." The word used for heart has two translations: One is as a door through which a blue sky over white-washed stone steps can be glimpsed and the other has to do with a kind of clearing in a forest of hemlock and white pine. Sadness references the turning-inward look of a shy child in a roomful of strangers. Glad has a connotation of the same weight and earthiness of certain flower bulbs that can lie dormant or be transported great distances in their dry drowse and then brought to blossom when replanted. The phrase "in the day" is a guess, but a good guess, given that time passed then as now.

All I can say is I rarely drink, and had two glasses of wine the minute I walked in the door... Merlot and Fritos=fruits and vegetables, yes?? A Blessing by Ken Hada After three days of hard fishing we lean against the truck untying boots, removing waders. We change in silence still feeling the rhythm of cold water lapping thankful for that last shoal of rainbows to sooth the disappointment of missing a trophy brown. We'll take with us the communion of rod and line and bead-head nymphs sore shoulders and wrinkled feet. A good tiredness claims us from slipping over rocks, pushing rapids – sunup to sundown – sneaking toward a target, eyes squinting casting into winter wind. We case the rods, load our bags and start to think about dinner. None of us wants to leave. None wants to say goodbye. Winter shadows touch the river cane. The cold is coming. We look up into a cobalt sky, and there, as if an emissary on assignment, a Bald Eagle floats overhead close enough to bless us then swift

for my honeyhaired girl...

What a crappy weekend. The aggravating half of it was playing waitress to two floor patients without beds on the floor to transfer them to. Two patients who both need to be fed a total of six meals within eight hours. I didn't even feed my own kids that much. Mr. P. basically needed a bath after each meal cause he's a helper and wants to feed himself faster than the speed of light. Unfortunately his help ended up all over the bed, the floor, his gown, his hair... And the docs, knowing that these patients are floor borders in an ICU take full advantage of that, constantly spitting out STAT orders from some secret, undisclosed location, never talking with the nurses and each order contradicts the orders already written. I'm not even going to mention other bodily functions and the fact that each patient is well over 200 lbs., or the fact that their visitors did not understand the concept of a garbage can, or a call light, and are unable to grasp the technology of a remote cont

"...I guess we're all one phone call from our knees."

by Ellen Bass to love life, to love it even when you have no stomach for it and everything you've held dear crumbles like burnt paper in your hands, your throat filled with the silt of it. When grief sits with you, its tropical heat thickening the air, heavy as water more fit for gills than lungs; when grief weights you like your own flesh only more of it, an obesity of grief, you think, How can a body withstand this? Then you hold life like a face between your palms, a plain face, no charming smile, no violet eyes, and you say, yes, I will take you I will love you, again. please note: photo by chloe_cheng

I have a few moments to collect my thoughts this afternoon before picking up Miss HoneyHaired, so thought I'd share. School seems to be going well. I'm pretty happy as a clam, though I wouldn't mind winning the lottery and taking one or two more classes each week and working one or two days less each week. Our class today was about occupational infectious diseases, including those spread by animals and animal contact. You know, it's a damn wonder mankind ever propagated and survived generation after generation given all the bugs and viruses afoot. Almost makes me fearful of the little squirrel family which has built a rather intricate nest on the outside sill of our kitchen window. They carry all kinds of bad bacteria and ticks and fleas. So we shall only wave to the little baby squirrel who likes to look in around dinnertime and raises his little paws. No air kisses. Yesterday's class was Occupational Health Workshop and involves actual research, meant to get the

by Morton Marcus Wearing a silken silver gown, the little princess is staring at us from the foreground of the painting. As if on stage, she is brightly lit, surrounded by dwarfs, ladies-in-waiting, and a recumbent hound, and resembles a doll placed in the middle of her entourage. Behind her to her right, near a large canvas whose back is toward us, the painter, Velazquez, stands half in shadow, palette in one hand, brush in the other, while behind her to her left, a nun leans toward a courtier, about to speak. On the rear wall: paintings, large canvases, hang, almost obscured by darkness, and a mirror reflects the presence of the king and queen who must be observing the scene from the same place we do, as if they (or we) are an audience at a formal family event. But, no, the painter is standing in the wrong place to paint the scene. Do you see it now? It's the king and queen who are being painted, and the princess and her entourage are the audience watching mama and papa pose for

Is this what's meant by world weary...?

The Elusive Something by Charles Simic Was it in the smell of freshly baked bread That came out to meet me in the street? The face of a girl carrying a white dress From the cleaners with her eyes half closed? The sight of a building blackened by fire Where once I went to look for work? The toothless old man passing out leaflets For a clothing store going out of business? Or was it the woman pushing a baby carriage About to turn the corner? I ran after, As if the little one lying in it was known to me, And found myself alone on a busy street I didn't recognize, feeling like someone Out for the first time after a long illness, Who sees the world with his heart, Then hurries home to forget how it felt. please note: art by Amanda Cass

A Light Left On by May Sarton In the evening we came back Into our yellow room, For a moment taken aback To find the light left on, Falling on silent flowers, Table, book, empty chair While we had gone elsewhere, Had been away for hours. When we came home together We found the inside weather. All of our love unended The quiet light demanded, And we gave, in a look At yellow walls and open book. The deepest world we share And do not talk about But have to have, was there, And by that light found out. Welcome home, gentlemen.

by Marcia Popp i broke a vase at my great-grandfather's house when i was five here come sit on my lap he said don't feel bad about that vase i didn't like it anyway you helped me get rid of it i knew better but let him comfort me while i felt secretly bad inside did you know that my own mother said i was her worst boy no i said that can't be true oh yes he said and she was right i made accidents happen all the time i didn't really mean to do bad things they just came upon me when i wasn't paying attention when i was five my brother and i chased the goose in the barnyard until it fell over dead we propped her up in the fence so she would appear to be interested in the grass on the other side what happened my father noticed that the goose did not move all day we got spanked should i get spanked too for the vase not in my house he said.