(Every Christmas I am visited by nostalgia for the simpler, “purer” time when my children
and, later, grandchildren were more enthralled with the wrappings than the gifts.)
a box lose its
magic or ribbon shed its
charm or is a child lured from won-
der and why does her angel not sound the
© 2006 Dennis Ference
The just-lit fire snaps and dances a sprightly dance,
while from the kitchen, a dissonant chorus of voices
reverberates into the last hesitant corners of quiet and calm.
Soon the festivity will all come together by the fresh pine
dressed in her holiday finest, here, next to the hearth.
But for the moment I am sumptuously alone. I settle,
coffee in hand, into a compliant, generous chair,
and smile a satisfied smile at the wooden soldiers
guarding the cascading pile of holiday spoils.
My eyes drift to the mantle, where candles, holly,
and pine cones intersperse with the latest of the grandkids’
frozen poses and smiles. How they have changed: newly
pierced ears; baby teeth multiplying; that recently assumed,
In a minute or two, I will surrender solitude and reverie,
but not without the passionate sigh, not without the begrudging
nod to the transience of time turning the warm fires of our lives
into wisps of smoke escaping into some vaporous beyond.
© 2006 Dennis Ference
(A lighthearted take on one of the amazing
“small” manifestations of the Creative Presence
we so take for granted. First posted 6/23/14.)
i celebrate the scab big and small
sacrament accessible to one and all
reminder we are more than machines
equally helpful to beggars and queens
it stays no longer than required
with little fanfare it’s retired
a creation of promise and salubrious dreams
a little miracle built into our genes
so all hail the scab and praise to its maker
in the business of health it’s a mover and shaker
© 2005 Dennis Ference
As far back
as anyone could remember,
the people of the town
built houses for each other,
sheds, truth be told, crafted
with the hammer of judgement
and the nails of assumed
superiority; houses too small
for a full breath, too cold
for the precociousness of hope,
secured with heavy bolts
of dark warning and fear.
Yet in this town, as in
countless towns everywhere,
lives continue to be lived,
families formed, futures built,
histories made and recorded.
Yes, but wait, you may say.
What about love?
What about compassion?
Do not lose heart, my friend,
for love, in all its guises,
gratefully knows forever,
the trick to pick our locks
and let herself in.
© 2014 Dennis Ference