Happy New Year
One Day at a Time
New Year’s Day. For the most part I’ve ignored it for a good decade or two. And a decade before that I remember it as a hangover. Not that we’d been out on the town doing the amateur-night tradition, but because it was an accepted celebration of over-indulgence, I had to do my part given my reputation as an over-indulger. I have to go way back to think of New Year’s Day as a holiday to be celebrated with a major dinner. That was the tradition I grew up with. Christmas and New Year’s were the penultimate eating holidays, a week apart. One most often involved a turkey and the other a ham, both surrounded by all the side-dishes known to mankind and followed by a parade of pie. My sister would often insert some super-rich concoction among the pumpkin and berry/apple line-up, like a cream pie, banana-coconut-or-chocolate, or a cheesecake if not strawberry shortcake. The holidays were about eating.
We paid tribute to the food, but for a generation of drinkers, twas the season to pour it down. In the short term that was lively fun, animated card games and storytelling. Of course it was less entertaining to those living with an alcoholic. It doesn’t take long for fun to turn to shit in those situations. So “the holidays” were a mixed bag for me, a combination of joy and pain. “Come Back Little Sheba,” or “The Days of Wine and Roses,” were two films I could relate to as a child. That level of sadness has never left me. It’s just part of who I am. In a way I think it made me appreciate the good times even more, and the combination of that swing between joy and pain, molded my view of life. I think it made me more empathetic and emotional. Whatever it did, it’s had its way with me as I’m into my eight decade. That’s just my take on it, which I believe attuned me to poetry. Poetry is more about feeling than anything else to me.
So here are a few nostalgic poems cobbled from memory and imagination for your post-holiday reverie. We don’t have much snow yet, so these might take you there. We wish you all peace and love in this new year to help you deal with the inevitable pain. Be honest and be kind. If we shoot for those, we gave it our best shot. And as “they say” after that: fuck it. Slainte!
CUPS OF KINDNESS
Guy Lombardo’s orchestra played
while the black and white crowd waltzed
the ballroom, and folks swayed
in overcoats snowy outside
on Times Square singing Auld
Lang Synge after the countdown
to end or begin another year,
ghosts of themselves on our Sylvania
TV. I remember those sweet moments inside
after sledding all day into the night, then
waiting for that grainy ball to drop
and interrupt Monopoly
or Yahtzee with cups of cocoa
to toast the wonder of hope
and nostalgia we held so dear—back
when we knew each new year would be
even better than the last.
Do you remember
when that started to change? Was it the first
hangover? Those stalkers shadowing
you under the mistletoe? Maybe
one to many failed peace accords. Or
was innocence lost with Dick Clark’s microphone?
The first time you hurled Tom & Jerry’s
in the snow?
I’m not sure, but I know
I can recapture some of that sentiment
standing outside after dark in the cold,
whether sledding or skiing or staring
at a fire, being close to the frozen
ground, and it doesn’t matter if I’m alone
or with family or friends, it seems to me
the key is being out and cold and wet,
a little closer to death, then going in
where it’s warm and dry, knowing
that I’ll survive tonight, and by
repeating this formula,
we may grab the time to dream
big enough for luck
to find us next year.
FUKUSHIMA RISING
January again
seven degrees in the dark
my childhood frozen
memories of reusing aluminum
tinsel collected in strands
off the dried-out Christmas tree
until it wrinkled and broke
like over-cooked spaghetti
there was plenty of time to burn
when they lit the bonfire of firs piled
high and crackling-orange at the dump
our New Year's fireworks display
The silence on cold nights
walking main street
US Highway 10 West
the only sounds
our feet clunking, clothes rustling
sniffing snot, our breath
stopping to listen to the thump
in our chests, the buzz
of the tavern's neon sign
muffled voices rising
arms waving inside the bar
behind steamy window glass
the illegible business of men
prattle that bored us
maybe the butcher's fat finger
on the scale or the mayor's fat head
and always the communist threat
None of us had any idea
about the nuclear tests
in the Nevada desert
or soldiers dosed with LSD
but I could see why
people drank when they weren't busy
working, to get happy
or get lost, maybe find their way
back to walking in the stillness
of a January night
oblivious to the dust of mushroom clouds
the hidden molecular glow
softly falling in snowflakes to tongues
rats amazed and hungry
clamoring happy and fat
in the maze of their own making
inauguration eve
a walk outside
alone
your solitary
comfort soothes
the wounded soul
to roll
in the arms
of the planet
again absent men
and the industry
of money
your poisoned ego
just to know
the peace
of snow buried
creek banks
watch ice
encroaching on
the open
ripples hushing
what's left
the beauty
of death
reflected in
a raven's eye
and the sweet pull
of your stride
outside
walking alone
in the dark
unknown
leaving it all
behind