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While Mother strung the tree with tinsel,
I snatched what dropped unnoticed
and laid the lead strips across railroad tracks
then waited beneath blue bulbs of light
and pine needles for the spark and crackle.
Some ornaments went back generations,
and I’d cover my mouth with excited hands
and smother squeals of glee
when Botch batted one off the Christmas tree
over the lamp into a wall with his tail.
I stomped the floor for all I was worth
and—due to a short in the wiring—made the angel
perched on the pine peak blink.
I stomped the floor even though I was told not to,
stomped the floor until a spanking
from my step-father stopped me.
Then I walked heavy in and out of the room
in a pout, hoping to bring about a blink by accident.
That defiance still flickers inside of me,
and the twinkling angel, a bright, but flawed star,
given to glimmers of night, and the dark thrill
in the way the angel jumped at my disobedience,
snuffed its light, how it winked at me.
© by John Smith.
Used with the author's permission.
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John Smith is a retired high school English teacher in New Jersey whose work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies. The author of two books, Even That Indigo and All My Ghosts Are Here, John's poem, "Lived Like a Saint" was set to music by composer Tina Davidson for the choral work, Listening to the Earth. Another poem, "Birding," was commissioned by New Jersey Audubon for their centennial. In addition to writing poetry, John enjoys cooking, gardening, and keeping an eye on the birds.
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Paul M. Smith:
Enjoyed it! Literary license on the the step-father? Bro
Posted 10/14/2011 06:22 PM
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