“Say goodnight, Gracie, say goodnight George.”
—Burns and Allen Show 1950-1958
Say Goodnight Gracie
found it
it was snowing
on the sleeves
of Buffalo
i’m a Winter gal
except for
my old gal bones
that freeze
euphoric
over flakes that fall
zero
repeat zero
last year
even Christmas
in Minnesota
this Bills team
might go go go
straight
to the Superbowl
and win win win
our family dream
sure
would
put a smile
on the face of my Dad
make my sister extra crazy
my other sibs
would be hanging from the chandelier
as I turned out the light
to watch it snow snow snow
Say goodnight, Gracie…
for one must
after blowing off the lid
the practical
blow the candles out
and eat the cake
but make no mistake
her screams linger
let it snow snow snow
down my sleeves
make my day
please
As the oldest child, I got to choose
Before my other sibs.
From where to sit or what to do,
I was awarded dibs.
The fact of being older meant
I had a certain clout
That might have caused resentment
But was always straightened out.
My younger grandchild, though, believes
Her status holds the keys
To open every door she can
Which “youngest” guarantees.
She doesn’t think it’s fair the order
Of her brother’s birth
Allows him any privileges,
But then, for what it’s worth,
If “oldest” has no value,
“Youngest” has to be the same.
Too bad there is no middle child
Around to fan the flame.
spotlight on prayer
the holy spirit enters
emotive huddle
as the sanctuary fades
sibs knit together in Christ
12/6/2021
Flew down south to visit kin;
Two long years is what it’s been.
Thought we’d give this trip a spin –
Glad we got to do it.
Saw some sibs, an aunt, a cuz,
In-laws, too and one who was,
Plus two nephews, most abuzz
With shock – nobody knew it.
After springing the surprise,
We sat around ‘neath sunny skies
To laugh and chat and realize
That no one really blew it.
Since blood connections run real deep,
They’re worth the cost they take to keep
So I am glad we took the leap,
At last, to rendezvous it.
I’ve never had a Christmas tree
Nor stockings filled with treats.
I’ve never gone to midnight mass
Nor hoped for Santa-meets.
I’ve never woken Christmas morn
With presents to unwrap
And no one in my household
Ever wore a stocking cap.
I’ve never eaten Christmas ham
Or fruitcake and to drink,
My sibs and I stirred rags for “eggnog”
In the basement sink.
But don’t feel bad for me because
I celebrated, too.
The holiday of Chanukah
Was what my family knew.
We had our presents and our foods
And candles every night,
With songs and family gathered ‘round,
Eight days of pure delight.
But still, today, I’d like to wish
Amid the bright displays,
To all my Christmas friends
The very merriest of days.
I’m almost out of flour
And my sugar’s at the end.
I do not have sweet butter
On which I, of course, depend.
Since I’m not going into stores,
I’m ordering from sites
That quickly get depleted
From competing appetites.
Yet with my grandma’s recipe,
Each Chanukah I bake
The cookies I grew up on,
Long and tedious to make.
I scraped together just enough
To make a smallish batch.
Most years I mail some to my sibs
But that I had to scratch.
Yet still, I rolled the dough and watched
The shapes take form and brown.
On Chanukah, I couldn’t let
My kids and grandkids down.
A thank you note.
It’s all we need.
It never came.
An awful deed.
It would not be fair
To punish the sibs
For one small mistake
By a fellow dibs.
A thank you note
It’s all we need.
It never came
An awful deed.
It’s Siblings Day for those of us
Attached by blood to others,
Relationships important as
The ones to dads or mothers.
Our sibs may be supportive
And a key to our survival
Or possibly competitive,
The classic “sibling rival.”
We might be close while growing up
And drift as we get older
Or bond as age encroaches
And we seek a lean-on shoulder.
But whether we’re in contact
Or are lacking in affection,
Our circumstance of birth provides
A permanent connection.
The crowd was hushed and waiting
For wishes to resume
When suddenly there was
Another poet in the room.
When words might be expected,
My friends would all assume
That rhyming thoughts would come
From me, the poet in the room.
These folks were not my homies;
My sibs were there, though, whom
Would surely have expected
Me to rhyme into the room.
I had no poem I'd written,
No words with nom de plume,
But how I wished I'd been
The only poet in the room.
Seven newborn piglets
Clambered greedily to suck,
Six succeeding in their mission
While the runt was out of luck.
As their mother lay, exhausted,
All her babes knew what to do
Though the smallest was prevented,
By his sibs, in getting through.
We, the visitors, felt helpless
And were sounding the alarm,
But the workers weren't bothered
At the Quiet Valley Farm.
For, though "Charlotte's Web" thoughts hovered,
We hoped all would be okay
Since the farmers seemed quite trusting,
Letting Nature lead the way.
A set of siblings was in an effervesce
Of blossoms and bubbles.
This world to each was a bundle of joy.
They laugh and played like two girls should.
Somewhat different, as each became older, they would be captivated by desires.
There in a beautiful presence they thrived.
The blossoms were called The Country of Beautiful Florets.
In bubbles, this Country eternally occurred to exist.
God would choose this Country as his Kingdom.
These sibs were of royal blood.
Each emotionally governed the people ways.
Both espoused on the same day.
During one diurnal course, their world became dark
To reveal their purpose.
The bubbles formed a body of knowledge.
The blossoms would transmogrify humanity.
Yet the Country would revolve
Evolutionary to rebuild a new universe.
Worldly prophesy escaped
From a cosmopolitan figurehead.
God had redefined
As known!
The twins were part of his Throne.
Realm in matrimony within the brotherhood.
_______________________________________________|
Penned March 26, 2015!
When I was a kid, in the family car
We all knew where to sit;
If the order ever wavered,
Someone’d likely have a fit.
But today I heard of something new
Which tells me things have changed;
If someone hollers, “Shotgun!”
Well, the seats get rearranged.
The “Shotgun!” yeller sits up front,
Right by the driver’s side,
A better view, perhaps, and thus
A more prestigious ride.
I wonder how that’s working out
For I can clearly see
The problems this might cause within
The average family.
Had this been in existence when
My sibs and I were judging,
We would have yelled our heads off
But my mom would not be budging!
What if! I were a girl…
Born of noble parents,
Owning jewels’ palaces in town
Willow-wood’s cottages in countryside;
Long-eared tall dogs--chained in yard, beggars –waiting in queues on doors;
Feasts served to the hungry strangers,
Wine and coffee offered to the visitors;
Having horses, herds, farms and servants,
Tens of gardens of apples and pear,
A roses’ garden for new lovers;
Many meadows, several pastures, and dozen dark woods,
And soaring snowy falls, frisky rills, and calm clear creeks flowing in;
And you!
You were in rags, deprived of parents and sibs,
Working in our orchards,
Growing tomatoes in our farms, grazing our goats
Or serving our patrician guests— cigars…!
Truthfully, swearing of my manhood,
I would have simply, picked only—
You!
an Arabian sonnet
Raising up a falcon brood – bucolic,
one becomes extremely melancholic.
Yesterday a clamor vitriolic
told of eyas’ danger diabolic.
Trying panacea called a mixer
feeding drops of magic juice elixir,
desultory effort served to fix her.
Little did I know there was a trickster.
Still forbearance caused my heart to tremble.
Gathered on the roof, my birds resemble
teenage bullies looking to dissemble.
Such assemblage often does beleaguer.
Lissome sibs had pushed off little leaguer -
fellow eyas not yet fledged but eager.
*eyas (eye’ yuz) is a nestling falcon
taken from the nest for training, plural is eyasses
When siblings reminisce, it's strange
Which memories they share.
Though certain details match,
Exact comparisons are rare.
Two of us can almost taste
That soggy toaster bacon;
Yet the third one's positive
That we must be mistaken.
Other memories bubble up;
We reach into our brains
To see which scenes have disappeared
And learn what truth remains.
Reality is tricky, though.
What meant a lot to me
Might not have mattered to my sibs
To quite the same degree.
The beauty of reunions is
The chance to reconnect.
In reaching back across the years,
We can't be circumspect.
And so we laugh, excluding all
Outside our sibling glue.
We slip into our younger selves,
As siblings often do.
But I am not surprised to see
That distance, time and age
Have not affected what to others
Might be hard to gauge:
That childhood's bond, still strong and tight,
Which fills me with affection,
Will always be, at least for me,
A permanent connection.
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