The Last Caboose

We have come today to celebrate

a pairing not so celibate

that’s added to the family mix

a soon-expected number six.

Six children that are under seven

named for candy and backward-heaven,

and now includes, when they get braggin’

Trystan Lewis Azel McLagan.

The challenging poetic chore

is simile and metaphor

on how this pair has matched and mated

using phrases not X-rated.

Turning to that online noodle

we fed to Google the whole caboodle

which gave the great brain pain and strain

until it chugged out railroad train.

Hunter is the large-scale tanker

a thumping, bumping, empty clanker,

and Declan’s car has lots of glass

to spy on everything going past.

The animal car is right for Reece

filled with gators, snakes and geese.

Nevaeh and Kaylee like to star

all dressed up in the parlor car.

Chris supplies the locomotion –

lots of noise and constant motion.

Erika’s the engineer

who looks ahead and tries to steer.

That leaves just one to introduce,

the one who’ll soon be on the loose

all full of wails and poops profuse

Trystan, this train’s last caboose.

Magi

"...no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation"
TS Eliot, The Journey of the Magi

One tree only in our house, decorated
with tinsel and tradition. Eliot’s Magi
saw three trees and an old white horse
that galloped away leaving them
uncertain about birth or death.

This dawn in our house, Jesus sleeps
and the Magi are mute, so I hear
invitation in the poet’s soliloquy
and cannot be innocent. Quiet
and disquiet won’t remain. Arriving

are not Kings, but the bustle of family
and a new grandchild. We celebrate
innocence, giving, wonder. Our day
clamors with happy unwrapping
the clatter of dishes and love. Still

in the evening, I don’t leave with the Magi
transformed and glad of another death. Skeptical
I slip from the poet’s god as the poet’s voice
slips from me until it is just an uneasy
murmur of hearing and disbelief.

The Holiday Letter

Often pictures, mostly prose
How do they choose what they expose -

The births and dogs and college choices,
Sports awards, cherubic voices;

Kids are perfect, health is great,
One has found the ideal mate;

They’ve travel to some scenic dell
Or sometimes had the trip from hell;

New grandparents who boast out loud
That reproduction makes them proud;

It’s not all joy, sometimes there’s doubting,
True confessions, subtle outing;

She’s been hurt and he’s addicted,
Painful cries of souls conflicted;

Death of hamsters, flushed goldfishes
Mixed in with the holiday wishes -

These letters, yearly rights of pen,
Are Facebook for the older gen.

Midnight on the Other Side of the Bed

Write a poem in the voice of the other gender

I’m hot.

Not the toney body hot
that makes you want to shake your booty,
though I have danced.

Not the humid erotic hot
that you feel in your nipples,
though I have loved.

But the midnight hot
when I throw off the covers
and measure minutes long.

My grown children keep their own time now;
there are no urgent cries in the night,
there won’t be others.

Some memories make a refuge where I can
let the bad dreams go. I can
make the clock tick comfortably.

Freed from hormonal puppet strings, I can
rise to my own future. I can
make friends important, even men.

Morning will bring fiber cereal,
supplements and stretching,
the sweat will cool at the back of my neck.

Dinnertime

Our dinners weren’t much to celebrate
Mom made the meal and we all ate.
And afterwards, at Mom’s clear wishes,
We two kids would wash the dishes.
The meals were nothing like gourmet,
Just nourishment to end the day.
What made the meals remarkable
Was all day long, my Mom taught school,
And kept the checkbook, and the house,
And sang in churches North and South,
And all of this activity
Consumed her time, instead of me.