Musings by The Poet Loriet - A Cage Without Bars-They're Closed on Holidays

Tears

Smoky moonlight,
candles glow as I
remember the warmth
of smiles I realized
too late weren't
meant for me.

Holiday shoppers smile
at the bell-ringers,
at the kids in line
to tell the jolly man
their secret wishes,
but they have no smile
left over for a poised
yet polite woman who
shops alone.

I hold up a paper star
to the tiffany lamp
as glitter flakes to
mundane brown floor.
Another sip of wine
as I listen to the
vanilla silence of
another night alone.

A holiday flutters
too close for comfort
as calendar pages
tear off and flaps
of envelopes get
moistened by lips
willing to spread
yuletide cheer.

Lips that will
be kissed under
sprigs of festive
mistletoe, lips that
will start the new
year off right,
right now with
somebody who
loves them.

Families will awaken
in matching plaid robes
on Christmas morning,
families that don't
have to think about
which parent the courts
say the kids should
be with this day or that.

Yes, families with
new puppies and muffins
hot from everloving ovens
and sturdy mugs full of
cinammon stick
embellished toddies.

And my kids will sit
on the steps, their
miniature suitcases
packed at their feet
as I go back to sleep
on my seventies-style
brown plaid sofa,
tired from once again
playing single mom
santa to innocent
eyes, eyes that watch
brightly searching
for a tradition or two
they can take with them.

I have no suitcase
packed for myself,
just baggage to share
with any santa whose bag
isn't already overflowing,
which is most of them.
The santas get more
senior and more
tired as the years,
years take their toll.

I snuff out the candleglow
as I wish for miracles,
miracles including Santa
remembering my name
and knowing that I
still have a wish list.
Miracles as pure as
virgin snow that
give me hope that
the best is arriving
on the next sleigh
coming thru the woods.

I won't always sit alone
eating fruit roll-ups
and listening to the blues
under an exquisitely-lit
Christmas tree as I...

As I realize that alone,
I can't hit the high notes.
Hell, this little birdie
can't even sing!
There's more than this.
There's more
than this ol' evergreen
melancholy of a
cool kitty dressed
in jingle bells that
no one will hear,
the cat that swallowed
the canary and buried
the carols deep
inside his stray heart.

Meow.
Mix it up
on the kitchen counter.
Double shot of chivale
over predictably-
cubed ice.
Santa ain't
coming to mama's
this year.

Nope, not this year.
Just keep flying.
I know I've been
a naughty girl.
I promise to try harder--

next year.
yes, maybe next year.

Lori Beal