Rendered Fat Content

2012 Christmas Cycle

Grandma Love

Don’t look for it in the movies,
try not to push and shove,
no pundit in this world understands
Grandma Love.
It’s the glue that sticks together
pretty much everything we see,
but rarely do we stop to think
what that glue might be.

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I say, “I see you,”
though I doubt I really do.
I certainly don’t see you the same way
you see you.
I look your way and even stop to say
some greeting as I pass,
and you return my acknowledgement,
maybe touching the brim of your hat.

We live our lives playing peek-a-boo,
believing all along the way
that we left behind our most childish games
in favor of grown-up play.
Then every blessed day we play,
unconscious of the game,
unspoken “Peek-a-boo” each time we greet,
with rituals much the same. Slip over here for more ...



Christmas seems reflective,
a bright and shiny sphere
within which we seek to see our world
in a parabolic mirror.
The tip of the nose expands in size,
shrinking toward the ears,
and we universally call the nastiest weather
The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year.

The rear view comes into focus
while the future fades away,
we sing the songs that have driven us crazy
since nineteen fifty eight. Slip over here for more ...


Snow Angels

What could prove more uplifting,
on a fading, snowy day,
than some half-frozen youth
still innocent of truth
leaving angels along her way?

The snow might seem indifferent,
the weather threatening more,
the sun making sounds
like he’s ‘bout to go down,
still she tends to her chore. Slip over here for more ...



I am rarely impatient,
only intermittently rushed,
which renders me a throwback;
an alien on this bus.
I stalk the slowly-roasted,
I savor the leisurely-aged,
and I restrict my microwaving
to cell phoning, not my plates.

We live in The Age of Instancy,
with little time to spare,
just as hungry as we ever were,
and the holidays ’re drawing near.
We can order McTurkey for supper,
squirt whipped creme from a can,
and buy a brand new baby Jesus
on The Handy® payment plan.

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Christmas seems illusional, almost sleight of hand; a magic trick we pretend to get, hoping it won’t get out of hand. It gets out of hand, anyway, whatever we try to do.

Much relies upon firm belief, no reindeer could fly on its own. Though few believe in Santa and such, still we decorate our homes. We share the stories and swap the yarns without really wondering much, and often some magic seems to appear, leaving a remarkable touch. Slip over here for more ...


I Know Why The Snow Bird Sings

I know why the snow bird sings with such unerring charm,
not because she’s particularly happy waiting out the spring.
And not merely because she knows the music, having inherited the score,
and not because she’s stiffening her courage to face some unwanted chore.
And not because she’s so devout she just can’t help but comply
with some chirpy-beaked, avian conductor waving a winged baton,
and not because she’s trying to please some showy, plumed mate,
and not at all because she’s certain of her or anyone’s fate.
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Black and White

4 thevintagevillage - Copy
The past was black and white back then,
the future, silvery bold.
The present, translucent and slightly hazy,
though memories shimmered gold.

Each year snuggled into eternity,
next week was a foreign land.
Some say this world was simpler then,
though I doubted that out of hand.
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Doesn’t holly seem unlikely stuff to celebrate anything with?
The waxy leaves, infernally sharp,
the berries, a poisonous pith.
The plant, itself, invasive,
its habit unrefined,
try to remove its tap root
to lose your mind.

Yet we bundle it into festive wreaths,
cursing all the way,
we staple it to our doortops
and wire it onto sleighs,
we send long-suffering spouses out
to snip a few more fronds,
administering mercurochrome
after they respond. Slip over here for more ...


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