branches up, roots down

WHAT: A Bloggers (Silent) Poetry Reading WHEN: Anytime February 2, 2007 WHERE: Your blog WHY: To celebrate the Feast of Brigid, aka Groundhog Day HOW: Select a poem you like - by a favorite poet or one of your own - to post February 2nd. RSVP: If you plan to publish, feel free to leave a comment and link on this post. Last year Reya put out the call and there was more poetry in cyberspace than she could keep track of. So, link to whoever you hear about this from and a mighty web of poetry will be spun. Feel free to pass this invitation on to any and all bloggers. Thank you, Reya, for beginning what I hope is now an annual event.

A very Merry christmas And a happy New Year Let's hope it's a good one Without any fear War is over, if you want it War is over now. John Lennon I can’t get these words out of my head. Tonight is 12 th night, and Solstice, Christmas and New Year's Eve are several steps back. But the song remains. It came on the radio as I drove to my sister’s house on Christmas day and then my girlfriend’s band was asked to play it at midnight at the big Code Pink New Year’s party. Both times hearing it, I found myself surprised by a choke in the throat and the welling up of tears. What is it about these words that elicit such a strong response, and that won’t leave me? It’s got to be more than menopause. I’ve been thinking about John Lennon and his song “ Imagine ” almost daily since right before Samhain. At that time, there was the usual repeating kerfluffle on a Reclaiming community list about California witchcamp ...

My aunt has been dying for awhile now. And she’s still not dead. She’s in her late eighties and has been in the hospital since Thanksgiving, teetering towards death. On Christmas she was taken off life support, the medical wisdom being that she would die within twenty-four hours. Since then, James Brown, Saddam Hussein, Gerald Ford, and Gabriel Carrillo (Feri priest and subject of countless controversies) have passed over. But not my aunt. It seems like every time I turn on the radio or open my e-mail I find out about another complex character crossing over. But my aunt lingers on. My mother is recovering from her mastectomy and has shorn her head in preparation of chemotherapy. She’s in no shape to travel back to visit her sister and make her goodbyes, which all in all, may be a good thing. Our holidays growing up were always marked, and sometimes scarred, by one of the battles in their life long war. Last year was the first in many years that my sister and I attempted to spend...