Keeping Warm

Frost on the window,

December's kiss good morning,

coaxing me out of bed

and into a fleece robe,

calling me to a wonderland

of kitchen steam

and peppermint hot chocolate,

to a plump chair by the fire

for a stew of Christmas poetry.

I indulge my primal need to keep warm.

By Lisa Lindsey

Accumulation of Light

An accumulation of light
dispels December's dark days
and swells my childlike anticipation

of lighting candles on the Advent wreath,
making ornaments for the Jesse Tree,
and choosing crayons of many colors

for Joseph’s dazzling coat,

of becoming reacquainted
with almost forgotten fragrances,
peppermint sticks and Saint Nick’s
tangerines, the aroma of gingerbread

winging through the kitchen
as an old French carol, neglected
for twelve months, finds a heart
readied for grooming ---

Lo, how a rose e're blooming.

By Lisa Lindsey

First Snow

Powdery flakes

and sugary streams

fall from the skies

and dress the trees

like cotton candy ballerinas

in frozen reach

and planted pirouette.

By Lisa Lindsey

Making the Jesse Tree

It's time to make the ornaments
for the Jesse Tree.  

Time for little fingers to grab

some paper, glue, glitter

and that fat box of crayons over there.
 
We'll need apple-red
for the fruit that Eve ate,

violet and orange and indigo
for Noah's rainbow,

tan, the shade of desert sand,
for Abraham's camel,

for Jacob's ladder a bole brown,
gold for David's crown
and royal blue for his robe. . .

Wait! We forgot Joseph!
A fistful of neon colors
should make a radiant coat!
 
Now paste a silver star

on the tippy top of the tree,

tie a rose ribbon around the trunk

and Jesse’s family tree

will be in full bloom again.

Don't forget to wash those sticky hands!

A Warm December

It is when I am wrapped

in a soft fleece robe,

and in the mellow

of winter's five o’clock twilight,

and in the peppermint rinse

of flickering candles,

I feel you sneaking your way

back to me. . .

It is now and we are finally

alone — my sweet catalog

of chocolate truffles and holiday pralines,

you and me curled up again

on a warm December evening.

By Lisa Lindsey

Convincing Christopher

We could not convince Christopher…

after he propelled through the door
and broke the grasp of two great-aunts
with their lips predictably puckered…

after the centerpiece on the table
caught his sparkling hazel eyes...

that the Advent candles
were not his birthday candles…

that the Advent wreath
was not a funny green cake…

that the imitation red berries
were not real cherries, 

that the pinecones

weren't made of candy

nor were they handy grenades

to throw at Uncle Roy.

But we convinced him with a Teddy bear,
and a quick hoist on a highchair,

and a frosted cruller that proved yummier
than evergreen as we assaulted

his sugary cheek with kisses.

St. Lucy’s Day

As dawn creeps up the eastern stairs
and slides across my pillow,
I direct a squinted eye
toward the opened bedroom door.

A ghost of long December past
whose very name means "light"
appears in the hallway
as a daughter robed in white.

She tiptoes through the room,
a wreath of candles on her head,
bearing gifts of clementine
and braided bread

of saffron and butter swirl.
Bless this day of lounging in bed
with sun-wheel cakes and my snowflake girl.

By Lisa Lindsey

And a Partridge in a Pear Tree

We pass over in silence

any attempts to keep the tree

from leaning drunkenly

against the window,

to convince the cats

that the tree is not theirs to climb

or use as a scratching post,

and we manage to swallow

a few four-letter words

while untangling the twinkles,

wipe the grins off our faces

when hanging the Mardi Gras beads,

and those felt ornaments from the 70s

with photos of the Partridge Family

glued on -- rare collector's items.

Keith Partridge gets special attention,

since his icon currently bears

a close resemblance to my oldest grandson,

which the younger grandchildren,

and even the cats, find very awesome.

By Lisa Lindsey

Tonight they dressed me in stars

a cold wind
scoots orphan leaves
along the gutter,

december's trees,
rodinesque, line the curb,

skeleton limbs,
grotesque, are wrapped
in holiday lights,

as if to say, “tonight,
they dressed me in stars.”

better than stars
they are beauty marks on
a city's otherwise gloomy face,

they shine beauty marks

on the otherwise gloomy faces
of night shift workers,

they sparkle in the eyes
of she who gazes up
from her bus stop bench,

as if to say, “tonight,
they dressed me in stars.”

By Lisa Lindsey

Holly Jolly Melancholy

Joy to the world and hark the herald
angels sing off-key.  All those carols
of yuletide hope have let me down.

No, you won't be home for Christmas,
and Santa Claus isn't coming to town.
The silver bells are tarnished.
Good King Wenceslaus lost his crown.

While the choir sings with Bing
and dreams of winterlands of white,
I'll hang a tinsel tear and wrap the presents
with pretty paper --- that's right ---
pretty ribbons of blue.

The holidays just aren't the same without you. . .
and every year it feels good just to say so.

By Lisa Lindsey

She Embodied Christmas

While we stayed up past our bedtime,

watching for Santa and praying for snow,

Mom was up to her elbows

in Pillsbury cookie dough,

chopped walnuts, wrapping paper,

ribbons and, with our permission,

treasures from the toy box

to take to St. Joseph’s Orphanage,

our gently-worn Teddy bears

and discarded dolls, because

even old toys deserve to be loved

by a child.

She embodied Christmas,

we just didn't know it yet.

So we set out a plate of warm

walnut cookies for Santa,

prayed for snow and went to bed.

By Lisa Lindsey

The Manger Scene

Kneeling plaster figures
circle a manger with straw

and the baby halo crowned

as I meditate on her,
the mother on her knees,
hands erect in perfect prayer
so soon after giving birth,

when I know she'd not be kneeling
but lying on her side with the infant

clinging to her breast,

gazing into his face as he suckled,
holding his tiny fist curled
around her finger,

rubbing her chin over his fuzzy head,
feeling the rhythm

of his hummingbird heart,

the prayer of coos and murmurs
as a Christlike quiet gathers,
overwhelming all hymns pomp and pious.

Animals Round the Manger

O Son of David,

himself a good shepherd,

you surround yourself too

in the huddle of grazing animals,

enjoying their warmth,

their simple spirits,

their lowing lullabies

in tune with

the Glorias of angels.

By Lisa Lindsey

THE CHRISTMAS ROOM

(at Crestview Nursing Home)

Maybe it is the sunlight

glinting off the glass icicle,

or the shiny metallic angel

or the star of blue yarn.

It could be the old-fashioned

hand-painted ornament

with its horse-drawn sleigh

and snow-covered barn.

It is difficult to pinpoint

the object of her vivid gazing,

as someone passes a tin of cookies,

as someone else sobs in a corner.

But she seems oddly at peace

sitting by her decorated tree,

lost in the room of a private dream.

By Lisa Lindsey

The Tree Topper

It was no place for an angel –

not even one the size of Tinker Bell –

hidden in the spiky branches

of a decorated Christmas tree,

tucked among the crystal doves

and metallic bells and ceramic apples,

peeking out between the stars of yarn

and glass icicles,

for she was an icon of higher things,

a yearly reminder of that first Noel

when a multitude of her race sang

to a world in need of glad tidings,

and so she was given a prominent place

at the very top of the tree –

this Tinker Bell angel in her gown

of cotton balls and golden glitter,

blowing her silent trumpet,

looking very much the way the sun does

when it rises over new fallen snow,

when the whole earth seems to wear a halo.

By Lisa Lindsey

The Inn

Christmas never changes
and yet changes forever.

Each year it offers
a carpenter and his wife,
heavy with child,
traveling from house to house
in search of hospitality
and a place to stay.

This year my door is open
and I have rooms abundant.

By Lisa Lindsey

Christmas Lights

It happens each night between

the twenty-sixth of December

and the sixth of January. . . 

One by one the houses go dark.

Another window loses its holiday luster,

another rooftop is missing a Santa,

another front door drops its wreath

and bow, its tidings of comfort and joy.

Bulb by brilliant bulb blink out,

so many fizzled goodbyes,

off to dream in attic boxes,

forgetting their heritage of fire.

But winter's just getting started,

and even the wise men

needed a star to guide them.

Lights, don't leave me now.

The middle of the dance is no place to stop.

By Lisa Lindsey

The Pine of Palo Street

(An annual visit)

You stand regally in your coat
of evergreen, smelling crisp and clean,
decked in frosted cones

and lighted with the stars of heaven, 

an aura of benevolence.

I wonder, as I run my glove over
your cracked black skin, listening
to the creak of your boughs
under the weight of snow and wind:

How much of life have you seen, Old Tree?
How long since you were a sapling?

I give thanks that you were never cut down
and hustled into someone's Christmas room,
draped in tinsel and glass, destined for brief glory
before burned as sacrificial firewood.

The most beautiful are short-lived,
but you grew old and became the guardian

of wisdom. . .

Now my annual visit is done.
I trudge home over a frozen Norse landscape
with tales of Tolkien roaming in my head,
smelling the smoke from sacred fires,
envisioning hot ale and spiced cider.

Same time next year, Old Tree.

Gift of a Thistle

Faith,

please linger awhile,

a child on Christmas morn.

Hope,

surprise me,

drench me like spring rain.

Love,

let the taste on your lips

be as peaches in summer.

Life,

be red and golden,

dance like autumn leaves.

Death,

fall quietly, blanket me

as winter snow.

Be gentle

to those who live on..

By Lisa Lindsey

Zuzu’s Petals

I lost the bracelet you made

out of paper ladybugs.

I miss the tea parties for two

on rainy afternoons,

watching our favorite movie

It's a Wonderful Life

every Christmas -- filling our pockets 

with "Zuzu's petals."

How often since then have I stood

in spirit on a lonely snow-covered bridge,

longing to be wonderfully alive again,

imagining you and me,

paper ladybugs and teakettles,

fumbling in my pocket, in search

of Zuzu's petals.

By Lisa Lindsey

Not Ready for Times Square

If I could stay lucid until midnight,

I might open a window and listen as

the bells of the cathedral peal over a city

made holy by a baptism of light snow.

I might sing Auld Lang Syne

to the newborn air, potent with magic,

or I might keep telling myself

that it's just another cold night.

Waving a wimpy toodeloo

I close the blinds and unplug the tree,

fix a traditional bowl of hot oatmeal

to soothe the winter lamb in me,

recall how it wouldn't be New Year's Eve

without my nineteenth-century novel.

Last year it was Wuthering Heights.

Now I'm eyeballing Jane Eyre, looking

worn and lonely, leaning against a bookend.

Something about spending the last hours

of the last night of the year with Victorian ghosts

and ominous shadows on the walls,

the faint moans of an invalid on a deathbed,

while the undertaker, his face pale and

flickering in the candlelight, stands by......

By Lisa Lindsey

December 31

After a Currier & Ives kind of Christmas,

the kind where snow-covered lanes

and rushing sleighs lead to homesteads

with a wreath in every window,

where ice skaters, arm in arm,

skim glassy ponds in Central Park,

I settle in my chair

with the last of the eggnog,

surveying the clock on the mantel

and a train of Christmas cards,

feeling a little sad that the trimmings

will soon be derailed, feeling

too tired to stay up until midnight,

and maybe a little too lost in a dream

of winter peace and perfection.

A Currier & Ives kind of New Year.

By Lisa Lindsey

The Resolution

The raspberry-chocolate mousse

is just a few bites away

from becoming a memory,

only a glassful of the midnight

sparkling wine remains,

while the dregs of pine needles

circle the feet of the Christmas tree

like a laureate's fallen wreath.

Laureate, I'm coming to get you!

I hiss, plucking the ornament

with the two turtledoves

and the script marking the year

of our first Christmas together.

 ~1993 ~

I hang the lovebirds back on the tree,

kiss the air beneath the mistletoe,

wish you a Happy New Year

wherever you are,

trash the chocolate mousse,

set the wineglass down with a resolute

final ting on the granite counter.

By Lisa Lindsey

Winter Sparrows

It’s New Year’s Day, 

the first day of 11 more weeks of winter.

The shabby little bushes

along the edge of the yard

hold a dusting of snow

and a pair of brown sparrows,

whistling their whims to each other,

and all the stores are closed

because today is the day

to watch the Rose Parade,

to dismantle the tree

and box up the ornaments,

to get a head start on our taxes,

or we could opt to stay in bed,

unfazed by the significance

of the date on the calendar ---

by the pile of post-holiday credit card bills,

content to rest like winter sparrows

chirruping softly beside their mates,

grateful for a little shelter –

be it ever so humble – from the cold.

By Lisa Lindsey

No Epiphanies

Breathed upon by this
Twelfth Night chill,
en-fogged stars promise

no epiphanies.

Wise men cancel their trips.
Holy families bolt their doors,
expecting no visitors.

No gold or frankincense.
No Herod cutting the silence
of night with the screams
of mothers and their children.

Let's end the Christmas season
without slaughter. Let this blizzard
wrap us in thick winter sleep.

No stars over Bethlehem.
No flights into Egypt.
No epiphanies.

By Lisa Lindsey