Middle Distance

Poetry Chapbook from December, 1995

(Jim's favorites boldfaced)

These poems just won't fit
into a perfect meter
contrived to ring true
from deep inside
Roget
Sometimes don't want
the confines
of lines
and verses

I guess that's an apology
in advance
But you've been on my mind
among other things
So many things in a life of things
I need to find order
in disorder
clarity
in confusion

This is the best I can do
paddling hard as I can
usually upstream
against tides
and current
Every time I take a stroke
proper words
slide down the blade
and run together

Is it sweat or clear cool drops
streaming down my arm
catching sunlight
running
to the bottom of the boat
One in the same perhaps
thoughts and memory
tears and transgression
in pools of words

PUNK HAIRCUT

The skinny kid, Punk haircut spiked in green
who says look at me
I'm rough
I'm tough
and in your face
Grew up
while we were hardly looking

International now, a star it seems
of subway gas
and letter bombs
still rough
still tough
still in your face
and we've begun to notice

Anonymous these days and faceless
in the most brutal
meaning of the term
playing the stage of CNN
as a hundred million catch their breath
and Punk haircuts
suddenly don't seem so dangerous

DANCING TO WOMANHOOD

There's a life in headphones
beating the beat
of Michael and Prince
But I wonder sometimes
if it's yours
Or borrowed like something
to warm you
against the chill
of womanhood

I laugh, because you told me once
that you felt
you'd been seduced
And it was another matter
you spoke about
yet there's seduction still
as you dance this dance
along the way
to womanhood

There's pleading in your eyes
to find it here
within cassettes
The key to a life written by others
where the words rhyme
and slide guitar
promises tomorrow
all night long
and womanhood

So take it there or make it here
take it from Michael
or make it yourself
Know the beat that makes you smile
makes you move
and sway
and close your eyes
And you'll find the words to write
your womanhood

BY THE NUMBERS

Recently, 51% of Republicans polled
couldn't find 46% of one another's offices
A fact that, viewed by 36% of their staffs
was found 47% accurate, leading to
missed lunches
bad haircuts
marital infidelity
and a persistent eye twitch

On the other hand, 16% of Democrats
regarded 22% of Hispanics
to be 11% underpaid
on Tuesdays
or perhaps Thursdays
with 19% undecided
and of the remaining 65%
12% unavailable for comment

According to the National Polling Association
57% of the pollsters were unable
to locate the tip of their noses
in a dark room
with nearly 50% of the remainder
needing three tries
All agreed, that a 3% margin of error
was unacceptable 73% of the time

CRYING IT OUT

I've never cried it out
Oh sure, there've been some moments
in the arms of those who loved me
when the tears have come
and it almost might have happened
but I've never cried it out

Life's longer and shorter than I planned
and no one ever let me know
there's a better way to handle things
than blindly seeing them through
And there's often tightness in my chest
but I never cried it out

If it seems to you there's distance in me
that you'll never understand
then know it caught me by surprise
this rising tide of helplessness
when everyone I know needs help
but I never cried it out

And I recognize these feelings often now
they might show progress of a sort
this sudden welling up of pain
that slides out of my eyes
but I'm afraid of things like this
and just can't cry it out

Trying to change a life not good enough
by the standards that I set
with all those years of struggling
my way, the only way I could
I find myself without a thing to teach
except the need to cry it out

I need to hold you each and all these days
and maybe you feel much the same
but we'll have to do the best we can
'cause I haven't learned it yet
and don't have much to offer you
but my hope you'll cry it out

Life isn't meant to be begun again
and I wouldn't want to anyway
but I wish I'd put my arms around you
each of you and all of you
and told you yeah, it's been okay
and held you while you cried it out

IN FUTURES

This point of balance is not
a broad concept of a lifetime
or a piece to fit
in the puzzle of my life
Not even a period of time
within which
some semblance of order
can or should be found
That's the lie
the false excuse of wandering
the rationalization
for not being here

But here is where I am
sitting at this keyboard
and it all comes to this
if I have courage
or not even courage
but honesty
and if not that
then a kind of recognition
that this isn't something
done before dinner
and prior to the theatre
but lived now

Now is what there is
and I've written of it before
like a revelation
and perhaps that's true as well
For all these years
it seemed a kind of journey
these activities
a step to somewhere
and it didn't matter
where so much
as long as knowing now
could be put off

And so of course, I put it off
this most intimate
look at who and what I am
this very moment
There was room, there was time
and no need
to end the sentence of my life
commas would do
Period. Enough.
I stand back and look
to see this instant
as a final photograph

If you read these words
that photograph remains
a still life of a man
this man at a keyboard
my finger poised
above a letter
choosing, deciding
looking at who I've come to be
Not tomorrow and not later
in the day, not a piece
but the whole puzzle
laid out in this moment

I find success in that
and little but excuse in futures
that cause me to compare
and let slide away
the me that is
with the me that might be
An intellectual trick
the penalty that's paid
for this developed brain
that writes and thinks
Compares what is
with what could or still might be

You'll never catch a wild thing
doing that
and never find a squirrel
who wishes to be a cat
or horses damning
the windswept rain
against which they turn
their hunched quarters
It's only me and you who think
we've earned a fireplace
and hate the raincold moment
waiting for a bus

I haven't licked it yet
but you need to know I'm trying
to put this love
in some sort of order
this thrill of being cold
and broke and worried over
To nod a bit in sunshine
and not ruin it with clouds
and feel a shivered cold
study it and smile
to make it mine
not thrown away in futures

WILL COME AS NO SURPRISE

It will come as no surprise
the wandering through space
and visits to planets, setting flags
of ownership, such a human thing
and we've been warming up
for the journey, over ready now
Impatience will be the crystal word

Moments ago we killed our food
dragged it home and huddled
for warmth against the fires
of our close held bodies
Moments ago we filled the need
with careful baskets woven
In long afternoons of conversation

I knew you by your voice and touch
moments ago
when we spoke and lay close
That voice is closer, yet further now
bounced by satellite to me
mixed among the textures
of my walkman spinning Dylan

I must get hooked to the Internet
to drive us faster, opening space
from those waking moments
when the smell of your body
was all a man could want
and your sleep filled eyes knew me
in those times of weaving baskets

Instantly, we need it all right now
The music, the image, CNN
that brings us close to Michael Jackson
freeze frames Jordan
takes you and me to miracles
A pale thing by comparison, my small miracle
when I killed your food and knew your smell

The expected day of weightlessness will come
quickly, yet not soon enough for the need
to do it all and see it all and feel it all
away from that awful warmth
of my hand on your sleeping belly
When memory crackles lifelessly across space
every thirst quenched by electrons

It will come as no surprise

REFLECTION

Mirrors in store windows
and steamy bathrooms
the eyes of lovers
drops of water
bold blue streaming skies
and bottle glass

Reflected imagery, unreal
bounced back
in refractions
of everything I hoped to be
since dawn
since the beginning

It's there, all held for me
this legacy of chaos
silvering back
and dropped in my lap
breathless
like a tired dog

Tomorrow absolutely nothing
will reflect
There are days like that
weeks like that
and sometimes
entire lives

FISHING TRIP

So much of it is in anticipation
An anxiousness that builds for weeks
over the lure of words
the perfect feathered phrase
Waking mornings, ready
more ready each day
and looking forward now
packing tackle boxes
testing lines of thought
Selection, always weighing
the strength of rod
against the hunted fish

Too much metaphor perhaps
but the pull is always there
Lazy times between these trips
and busy with the busyness
of other things
And then I've been away too long
from remembered ponds
and long slow casts
among the water lilies
Anticipation as the sun gets low
a catching of breath
in slow retrieves

I know it's time to fish again
laying a fly lightly, gently
natural as my skills allow
then watching the drift
Every sense awake and focused
for a time in this illusion
of natural life
And if I've patience and any skill at all
to do it lovingly enough
Ripples rise, tailing before the strike
and the moment stretches
far beyond these waters

DRAWING SMALLER CIRCLES

Success doesn't mean what it used to
and I can't be John Grisham
or Mickey Spillane
But grateful as hell for Hemingway
that he's analyzed in all those
Columbia Lit programs
and Prague isn't the Paris
of the nineties

I'm running out of needs, not wants
but empty tanked on neediness
and drawing smaller circles
The active verb is regress
and I had to look it up
to see if it's a verb or noun
Taking the time that's left to unwind
too many years of winding

I'd like to travel some, but can't bear
the thought of hotels
room service and rental cars
Scheduled on Tuesday for the next
thin waiting destination
and looking at David
with a crowd
moving out at closing time

Rather live there for a while or not
in long term rented rooms
belonging to the streets
and watching, catching light
in unexpected angles of the sun
my back against a wall
smoking the cigarettes
my friends and loves all hate

Maybe walk an old dog
and laugh when he smells
new smells
Thinking I might smell them too
for the first time
in an old life
Catch a train somewhere
without a ticket back
and get to know the rails

Spend the afternoon to watch
an unknown farmer plow a field
with a horse
and know it was worth it
that he plowed that field only for me
waiting out his life
for me to come and watch
And all the bells that ring in villages
were cast for just my ear

Haven't found what I'm looking for
and might not even know
if we came face to face
So I don't look for answers now
because there may be none
perhaps there should be none
All I find these days are questions
and need to ask them all

IMPRINTED

The day slipping away
as though it had a place to slip
as if it mattered
this difference
between ten and two

A remnant of other times
when moments were blistered
and a hot breath at my neck
hurried me on
into an immediate current

And still it tugs at corners
of my unconscious
when it's conscious
like a call from the kitchen
to get up and going

Imprinted like a migratory bird
to come back to the hatching
on automatic wings
swinging in
to the busyness of business

So much for migrations
at least for the time
I'll stay south
and watch the others
beat their wings

EASY

I have found that when deciding
not to write
Almost any excuse will do
The letter from a friend
lying in my hallway
A reply not yet overdue
not by a long shot
Requires my immediate concern

And what's this
there's been dust abuilding
all along the bookshelves
and worse than that
across my desk
One can't be expected
to concentrate
in a state of disarray

So, once the dog's been walked
this joint put right
a few letters answered
and moments organized
into stately arrangement
I'll know the time to face a page
to bring it swinging back
easy as a kid gone fishing

The words will fly next week
just after friends stop by
just after a needed trip
to the bookstore
to buy someone else's words
scribbled in the darkness
of their put off time, when it was
easy as a kid gone fishing

ABSTRACT

They love in the abstract, these children
And I don't mean by that
those children
or their children
or other children
or children in general
But my children, these kids who are not kids
but adults
grown
with lives
that are not my life

Years are passing now
not months or days
but years
that slide easily one to another
with no words
Becoming natural not to speak
The unexpected thing
no longer expected
Someone now would have to be shocking
to leap out of context
them or me

MIDDLE DISTANCE

In one of those conversations about
the meaning of life
We touched on work
meaningful work
the kind of thing to which
one dedicates a life
and states of bliss
and anthills

It was then I think, I made the point
or tried to
that man is an idler
and at his best
and surely his least dangerous
when idling
Gazing into that middle distance
curiously

The point was made of life being hard
before the wheel
but not by me
That devilish device put all men to turning
and they are turning still
women as well
beyond the need
beyond desire

I make the case for idleness
it's in our blood
a heritage of middle distance
and you'll see it there
any time a man puts down the wheel
to scratch himself
and find an idler
just below his skin

PERFECT TIMING

It's true, two climbers lost
in glacier ice
in France
And the French are not a culture
to forget

It's true, friends gathered
on each anniversary
of their death
Came together at the wall of ice
and lit candles

It's true, the fourth year
holding hands and memories
before this blue wall
The lost were lost no more
appearing, three feet in

It's true, perfect frozen friends
come to their own party
all but shaking hands
Four years to this bizarre arrival
. . . perfect timing

It's true, but what does it mean
not to be found randomly
or lost forever
But arriving, as though in time for tea
and looking out as friends look in

It's true, there is no message here
or all messages
gaze back from this blue ice
I'm not so sure myself
and wonder what you make of it

BITCHIN' 'BOUT THE PAST

You used to be able to look at a Packard
or a Cadillac
or even one of Henry's damned Fords
And know exactly what make it was
from three blocks away
on a rainy evening

But elegance and grace and two-toned summer shoes
are out
Gone
And all the Cary Grants today
have to pass
in sixty dollar jeans
And they say we're making progress

Cars all shaped like bars of soap, sixty thousand dollar bars
slippery in the wind I guess
boring
Good to drive, but my god, where is Fred Astaire
and a long sweep of fender
Ginger
and something worth a second look

The world's a poorer place without the '40 Continental
road houses, big bands
and crickets on a summer night
thin wheels in Bogart hands
long hoods
suicide doors
tops down and passions up

LOVING YOU

So, if you've wondered
Yes it's true
You knew we were good friends
and of course, we are
But, more than that
I've loved you as well

Yeah, I know that's the past tense
but it's easier in the abstract
and I'm shy about telling you
to your face
this moment
now

There's so much load on that word
these days
Everyone getting in touch with themselves
testing the waters
of self discovery
and thinking it's a new thing

You're embarrassed
and I didn't mean for that
but, do I need to wait for something
like your deathbed or mine
Even John Wayne
could say it there

So, glancing up over coffee
or making a putt
or missing one
When our eyes meet
and we both grin
it's because I love you

OLD DOGS

She called tonight and caught me
with something I knew
something we both knew
He's dying, you know
Yeah, I know
and I suddenly wished
for a cigarette
Something I hadn't noticed
in months

There was a tremble to her voice
and she cleared her throat
as though embarrassed by it
eight thousand miles away
Are you coming back to see him
while you still can
No, I paused and wondered
at the certainty
with which I said that

He wouldn't want it
at least I don't think so
I know I wouldn't
and I needed to clear
my own throat
He knows I love him
and I think he'd be
uncomfortable
making small talk

We agreed she'd test the water
run it past the guy
who lives with him
and let me know
But I already know
that some old dogs
want a quiet corner
and not too much fuss
Just to get on with it

We're both getting to be
old dogs
This brother of mine and me

RANDOM RADIO NOISE

I have this thing about our being
perfectly constructed
A flawless wonderment delivered
without self-doubt
and running smooth
as a Timex
at the moment of our birth
And then it all begins,
this de-construction we call
growing up, as in
stop crying and grow up
we somehow take a lickin'
and keep on
tickin'

But back to the original premise
and I know you love it
when I use words like premise
in poetry
But stay with me anyway
and let's see if we can fix her up
and drive this baby home
Our brains run on electric currents
we've found that out
All those electrons floating
and when one considers
the consequence of that
it brings a whole new meaning
to unplugged

But that's another issue
and what we're talkin' about here
is perfection
and what happens to it
and if we can get it back
'Cause maybe it's a truth worth knowing
that it's been there all the time
Covered, I propose by static
Those random radio noises
caused by periodic sun spots
or nervous mothers
guys at work
and the endless expectation
of everyone expecting

It's all too much
for speeding, perfect neurons
For electrons on a path
unflawed and seamless
This wobble, this stagger
this bulge in the loop
that no one asked for
And maybe, just maybe
that's what death is all about
A slowing down of all that
electric energy
Spinning off the clinging imperfections
until our light goes out
perfectly, once more

ANOTHER THRESHOLD

I can't afford this life I lead
as though there was another choice
And all the things that seemed so simple
so reachable
so logical
so eminently fair
just a while ago
are creeping out of reach

It's the grasp, it must be the grasp
There's nothing wrong with the reach
except for being out of
These days Boeing and McDonnel Douglas
are setting my pace
and their pace is up
while my reach is out
and maybe yours as well

I guess it's just another threshold
The point at which agreeable pain
turns disagreeable
and edges toward
impossible
or
intolerable
or some such old-fashioned word

But these are new-fashioned times
with the new downsizing
and the new math
where two and two equals one
as in earning power
as in the ability
to raise a family
or even catch a breath

Another threshold
as the Dow breaks through 5,000
More millionaires than ever
as two of us lean into the harness
hoping to be among them
before we break
or break each other
and fight back quiet tears

CARTOONIST

Popularity, in this modern culture
eats its own
And so we lose Calvin
and with him, Hobbes
Victims of the reader's crush
to be there each and every day
newly arrived

We'll take of the creator's life
each brushstroke with a grin
and demand it all again
tomorrow
And when we've used him up
be no more than slightly annoyed
that the flow is stopped

We will have made him wealthy
this guy with the wonderful sense
of your youth and mine
and count it as enough
Perhaps it is
and means no more
than that

TRAM STOP

She waved to a friend on the tram
this stranger past my window
and set off with a bold stride
Chin held high and a smile
that came from secrets deep inside
The aura of that smile
if I believed in auras
and could see them
Would have wrapped her in light

Nothing special to see lovers on the street
their eyes and arms
wrapped in one another
But this was different
and transferred direct to me
this stranger's love of a friend
And while two may make me glance and smile
this singular disconnected love
made my whole week warm

NEW IRON CURTAINS

Three suits at a Prague construction site
the butcher
the baker
the realty deal maker
Pointing, chirping together like birds
watching assets soar
on steel girder wings

A Czech welder glances, grins and spits
His eyes briefly turned their way
Labor contemplating capital
the weathered jeans of skill
mocking pinstripes
And everybody knows
that risk is where you find it

I UNDERSTAND

Your eyes say the loan committee
would like me better
in a Borsalino hat
And feel absolutely all the more secure
if I wore Georgio Armani
while making application

I understand

There was a time I felt the same
before the last five loans
all were paid on time
Then I knew the way to play the game
in those days when guts
were my only asset

I understand

ERNIE

I had a little moth
his name was Ernie
He flew through a flame
and Ernie burny
we'd say the words and giggle like mad
at our cleverness
and chase each other
in those child-days

Those innocent times
when life was full of smells
and out-of-breathness
before we knew
that Dad drank too much
and Mom wept quietly in the garden
when we weren't there
and dried her eyes for us

Then we all grew up somehow
a little at a time
Not so quickly as to crash
but through a time of bumpy landings
learning how it was
and how it is
and how it will be
and how we all are moths named Ernie

ADDICTIVE BEHAVIOR

Addictive behavior is, well . . .
sort of . . .
damned if I know . . .
addictive
And I find myself
showing all the symptoms

A romantic in a time
long past white tie and tails
A child, grinning helplessly
long past my childhood
A writer of long letters
in an e-mail age

But I've given up the cigarettes
after five decades of decadence
And never really into drugs
I find one glass of wine enough
and allow myself to savor
my romantic writing child

Share it with me
Sit down, we'll tell some tales
of friends we loved
of treasured books
and games that made us smile
A couple of addicts, you and me

IN CZECH

So, I'm listening to this little kid
chatter away
one seat ahead of me
on the tram
And wondering how he does it
and why I can't
Jabbering at his mom
and pointing out the sights
with candy-sticky fingers
in Czech

He's four years old, for god's sake
and that tiny half-formed tongue
whips around the words
with eleven consonants
and just one vowel
While mine is tied
and tried
beyond all patience
Struggling with good morning
in Czech

ONE DAY

One day perhaps there'll be a storm
on the surface of the sun
Sunspots or some such thing
A ten-times natural phenonemon
that briefly stirs the nuclear soup
of neutrons and electrons
galloping through space
Something we won't even feel
but our micro-chips will know
sending us a final message
that they're sorry, but they quit

One day the lights may well go out
and it won't be Armageddon
At least not in the biblical sense
but out is out
and no light still means darkness
It's possible these wonderful machines
we've built and loved
and snuggled up with
Will slam the door and leave us
like an angry lover
who's cleaned out the house

One day at half past four or five, the car may die
and Charlie won't come home from work
stuck out there somewhere
in a sea of dead cars
cussing and swearing
among his stranded peers
No phone to call home
and he'll kick the doors
swear and loosen his tie
climb over dead metal and walk
A briefcase warrior with no war

One day, someday, computers may go down
Not a momentary inconvenience
not this time
but a foreverness of idle things
Each and every one of us blind-sided
and standing there staring blankly
like stunned quarterbacks
trying to get our minds to clear
First angry that dinner will be late
Then wondering if we'll eat at all
unless we build a fire in the yard

One day, someday, we may all go back
in a ragged, unkempt line
to a life as hunter-gatherers
Bartering our way
and finally talking to the neighbors
The kids will think it's fun at first
when they finally straggle home
on sore feet
laughing at everything that's stopped
like the third sequel
of a B-movie on TV

I leave it to you, to chew on that
and consider how securely
we've bound ourselves to micro-chips
To prove there are still ways to suffer plagues
and the Middle Ages
will seem like a picnic
when all the lights go out
Alarmist you say, it cannot happen
and maybe I agree
and maybe I don't know
And it may well be that no one does

TAKE IT QUICKLY

I'm sitting in the realty office
under the lights
those incessant
flourescent
lights
Wondering how anyone can think
in such a glare
Conversations from four desks
in three languages
crossing like shots down the line
in a doubles match

Phrases drop from the brilliance
lob-shots, somewhere up there
three plus one
Chadov
won't last
won't wait---no fridge
twelve thousand
no, wait, it's already gone
I sag and try to think
where Chadov is
but it's the lights I feel

Not wanting to look at flats
desperately not wanting
to look at flats
Wanting to have a flat
desperately wanting
to have a flat
Quiet, with birds softly chirping
near the tram line
and maybe a terrace
that I can afford
with my writing going well

PROMISED LEISURE

Here we are huddled together
you and me
As we might have been
ten thousand years ago
in some smoky cave
Taking the moments available
between hunger, thirst and shelter
These more modern days defined
by your work and mine

What happened to that promised leisure
we spoke of in the early days
in secret conversations
whispered among kisses
I remember them
Those promises
that we would be diffreent
that we would never make
the choices of our parents

Yet here we are like cave creatures
at half past seven
struggling among the timeless
ten thousand years or now
And I need to take you in my arms
lift your chin and spend away the moment
to feel you breathe and know
it's not a never-ending fate
but just our choices

Can we turn off our lives
to stretch and yawn
Let the dinner go to hell
and light some candles
Lock up my cased papers
for another day
and yours as well
Be idle for a time
in promised leisure

TERRIBLE CHOICES

I'm told if you give someone
nothing but terrible choices
he will surely make one
and the evidence is piling up
The choice of continued hatreds
or of agonizing wars
And yet they say that war
is merely failed diplomacy
even though the diplomats
too often live in the comfort
of another country

What does that mean?

It means I remember a time
when the world was carved up
by the rich and powerful
And like a sliced thanksgiving bird
laced together for serving
and it's all begun to fall apart
among the hungry
The powerful needed no advice
as to the menu
After all, it was their dinner party
and metaphor will do for the powerless

Can't make that mistake again

Surely not and so, it's back to the table
and the hosts have changed a bit
as the wealth and power
dances to slightly different tunes
But some things seem so much the same
Once more these disparate ethnic guests
will have no choice
over who will serve and who will eat
It's such a bother for the wealthy
laying out the silver and linens
and the glistening crystal of terrible choices

STRUGGLING FOR DEFINITION

My complicated perceptions of me
met your expectations on the stair
and we grappled there
locked eye to eye
struggling for definition
We both perspired a bit
and then stood back
afraid of what we'd done
and what we'd seen
of each other and ourselves

Tried to breathe more naturally
and wrap our words
in a prettier paper
After all, if one's in love
a gift's the thing to give
and wrapping means so much
Plenty of time, long after the party
to throw away what's torn
sweep up the leavings
and get back down to business

Ah business, sweet business
profitable business
We are there now
and my perceptions
are loose once more
Your expectations
have become more polished
And I feel us drawing swords
somewhere on a landing
half up, not yet halfway down

IT'S ALL THE RAGE

I want to downsize
it's all the rage
Break up my divisions
and sell some off
Keep the fantasy
and find a buyer for the mill
that turns out mostly
my obligations
my darker side
my sweaty toiling parts

I want to conglomerate myself
and cash in someone else's chips
Loot the retirement fund
and make off with the dough
Become an offshore holding company
obscure and obfuscate
cover my tracks
while I stack the board
Cut loose these weary obligations
it's all the rage

And so I've inventoried a bit
to see how it best be done
But the pension fund
I find's gone south
the mill is obsolete
No buyers for my darker side
and fantasy is free
I'll FAX you details anyway
and e-mail my demands
it's all the rage

UPSWUNG

The wire story from New York
asks why Americans are so glum
after five years unending growth
And I pepper my eggs, sip coffee
as the Dow breaks through 5000

It may have to do
with the source of growth
Mergers, as in closing plants
Downsizing, as in being layed off
and upswings, as in bottom line

Those in the know are in the Dow
and 5000 isn't reached with sweat
as it once was in the good old days
when a single income bought a home
and the city was a place to live

I pour another cup and ponder pension funds
It's their fuel that fires this growth
and in turn they're fueled by sweat
as our investor-self lays off our worker-self
and New York wonders why we're glum

It's strange to see America from here
among these newborn Czechs in Prague
Running after an American dream
of Michael Jackson and Big Macs
and I wish them well and wash my dishes

CESKE VANOCE

It's pronounced chess-keh vanot-seh
and means Czech Cristmas
A writer friend says it's important
to pronounce it correctly
when you're in someone else's country
and she's right
A huge tree in Old Town Square
with lights from top to bottom
the fifth in fifty years

You may think it's a lonely time
to be so far away
this time of year
But Christmas is very much the same
and everyone smiles a little more easily
in this country with the easy smile
Some ideas won't die
and Christmas is among them
in a country with religious lights put out

Yet they're on again and I am here to watch
this public celebration
of something that never stopped
but was better to be quietly observed
It's comfortable, more candle-lit and shy
and yet the shops are bright enough
But money's dear and families are close
more likely to give modest gifts
in this cobblestoned Ceske Vanoce