Original Poems II

Type 1.)  Pantoum

Christmas Eve

The candle on the countertop flickers,
The smell of baking dough rises,
The darkness outside is broken by red and green lights,
The star at the top of the tree twinkles.

The smell of baking dough rises,
Wrapping paper crinkles at the touch,
The star at the top of the tree twinkles,
Children's  voices break the silence.

Wrapping paper crinkles at the touch,
A fire burns in the next room,
Children's voices break the silence,
Empty stockings stare out at the decorated room.

The candle on the countertop flickers,
A fire burns in the next room,
Empty stockings stare out at the decorated room,
The darkness outside is broken by red and green lights.

Type 2.)  Where I'm From

Where I'm From

I am from plates,
from Purell and tissues.
I am from the dipping backyard.
(Wet, gooey, getting stuck
between your toes.)
I am from
the poinsettias, the weeping willow.

I am from cookies and brown eyes,
from Alexander,
and John Vincent,
and Susan.
I am from the artistic
and the sarcastic.
From try your hardest
and okay child.
I am from a one legged
rooster and 365 stories
for children.

I am from Albany and County Cork,
chex-mix and chicken.
From the man whose life
my great grandfather saved,
the scaffolding, and the
leg lost by my uncle.
I am from the bags of pictures
on the shelf
in the hall closet,
pouring across the kitchen table,
each time they're brought out.
Bringing back
the good old days.

Type 3.)  Recipe For Me

Into the Mixing Bowl

First, begin with the basics,
messy curls and bad vision.
Throw in some awkward silences
and determination to succeed.
Mix in the Irish and English and
African and Native American,
the German, the Polish, and
just about anything you have on hand.
Don't forget a drop (or two,
or three!) of music loving
and avid reader.
Stir, stir, stir until you can see
the lumps of indecision
and shyness.
Bake until light brown.