Hey!! That was my attention grabber.
Now I’m going to brood and look intense
As I move into my next beat and jabber
On in a sarcastic up-speaky way to incense
My imaginary scene partner– certainly
An elder authority figure I’m standing
Up to at last! Now…I’m still. Hurt and lee-
ward against the wind I widen my eyes demanding
My bold choices be seen by the adjudicator
Who clearly holds my academic fate
In her or his clipboard or track pad. Oh educator
Of the theatre! I must matriculate!
Now I take that pause my coach instructed.
He said…so that my score won’t be deducted.

This Day we’ve demarcated as a new
Beginning–agreed upon by most of the globe–
Feels much like an extension of the few
Days before that covered us like a damp robe
That needs airing in the sun. I got
To do a show in school, and the last
Song said every blessed moment of what
We call our lives is the beginning. The past
Is the little playground rock climbing wall
I cling to because the resin approximations
Of foot- and hand-holds seem sturdy. And if I fall
I’m two feet up: risk ameliorations.
This day is new like every clock tick.
Seeing the ceaseless birth, now that’s the trick.

Our second son is the loudest human I’ve heard,
And I’ve met loud people. I’m a singing
Teacher and a musical theatre nerd
Card-carrying misfit toy ringing
In the new year with a solid rendition
Of “The Impossible Dream” because that’s what I’ll be doing
At midnight–dreaming. Last midnight was an audition
Of a different color, though, when our normally cooing
Room-sharing nuggets kicked off with a call-
And-response of abject wailing (from big brother–
He’s more “I Dreamed a Dream”) and metallic wall-
Cracking, cognition-halting screams from the other.
Somehow we got those belters settled down.
By “we” I mean Melissa–wearer of the badass crown.

We call it Goose Poop Park because
The landscape has been commandeered by fowl
Of the aggressive Canadian variety imposing laws
Of territory with slow stalk, hissing growl,
And fecal sidewalk overlay. Navigating
That with a stroller and independently-brained
Humans relatively new to the planet while mating
Rituals by the avian occupiers ensued trained
My mind on times driving from work when a goose
Family had chosen the road median as home.
I glanced with jealousy at the gaggle, their loose
And easy middle-grass fecundity in the weekday gloam.
I didn’t know our goslings were on the way.
They poop enough to rival the migrating fray.

Okay, so twelve days of Christmas seems
Really long. I think it’s because
The lights and tinsel were out at Target, and dreams
Of sugar plums were moshing on Santa Claus
Themed pop tunes well before
November. Everyone was ready for
Some Christmas whisky because this protracted war
Of a year has delivered some soul beat downs more
Bruising than a Wile E. Coyote gorge plunge.
While I’m ready to say goodbye to the red
And green conifer facsimiles, the 90s grunge
Drummer in my soul shakes his head.
“I feel stupid and contagious,” he sings.
I think today’s the five golden rings.

Our Christmas tree is one of those pre-lit
Numbers that we got on sale, and every year
We calculate how much dough we saved with it.
This December, several rogue bulbs we’re
Officially too tired to seek out extinguished
Themselves and most of their circuit neighbors, leaving
Two thirds of our arbor lucidly distinguished
From the dimmed fraction near the bottom. Retrieving
The culpable bulbs–I’m not seeing that
Happen. We discussed tonight how next year’s tree
Could be a mix of the hangers-on and the fat
Colored lights I loved when I was three.
We watch our Charlie Brownier tree half-shine.
We’ll prize the light we have on our bargain pine.

There are numerous vocal interpretations
Of “The Little Drummer Boy” to choose
From. There are the traditional iterations
Such as Bing’s and the trend-tastic takes that use
Amplified harmoniums with singers
Dressed in neo-colonial garb sporting
Hipster haircuts. Carols about the bringers
Of gifts to the Christ Child and awe-struck reporting
Shepherds proliferate the late-year
Atmosphere. My favorite phrase belongs
To the Rossetti poem set in the midnight clear
Midwinter–the wind chanting holy songs.
Without a drum to play or gift to impart,
The speaker gives the treasure she has–her heart.

There’s a photo of me at about four
Years old. I have a towel on my head
Sitting in front of the Christmas tree, the glor-
ious Christ Child (my Ernie doll) in a bedspread
In my arms. I essayed the role of Mary
With great commitment. In many ways I feel
That she has been near–to imperceptibly carry
Me through some tough shit and bring to heel
Fiery serpents of my own design. One time
I saw her, and when I tried to say thank you
For holding me like an infant, it was like a chime
Quivered, she smiled, turned, and vanished into blue.
I want to follow what I knew by the tree–
To answer an angel voice with let it be.

Dang I miss singing–being inside
A room with dozens of folks breathing deep
And sharing a frequency and word. I tried
Enjoying the many brilliant creations that keep
Appearing on my screen: accomplished performers
Sequestered to Brady Bunch compartments making
Tracks awaiting Garage Band transformers.
But y’all, we know it’s not the same as faking
Your way through music you half-learned, watching
Intently for the conductor who knows you’re making
Up notes on a piece you hope you’re not botching.
I miss those times I took completely for granted.
To harmonize bare-faced–I’d be enchanted.