Laundered Angel Clothes

 Christmas time is coming soon,

a very special night.

Everything in Heaven and earth

should sparkle shiny bright.

So all the little angels

have washed their formal wings

and polished up their halos

and other angel things.

Now on this magic Christmas night

if the sky emits a glow,

it's just the fresh scrubbed glimmering

of laundered angel clothes.

Christmas Slipped In

Window corners frame feather frost.

The teabag dips...dips...steam rises.

Candlelight bathes ancient hands 

over thin pages...

"And she brought forth her firstborn Son..."

Floorboards sing with the rocker  

and a purring cat.

Venerable eyes of reverence

Caress the beloved words...
"For there is born to you this day in the city of David a Savior, Who is Christ the Lord."

Tock...tock...the midnight clock.

Cold west wind

knocks at the door.

The old woman leans...

rises...

Did the angels knock?

She cracks the door.

Christmas slips in.

Finding Christmas

Long ago Christmas
Come back to me
Your drifting snow...
Your whitened trees.

The warmth of stove,
The smell of wool,
The secret smiles
The taffy pull.

Grampa's big shirt
Soft flannel check
My arms wrapped tight
'Round his strong neck.

Sweet cherry pipesmoke,
Barely there...
draws me up close...
Mem'ries in the air.

An old wicker rocker
Drawn up to the oven
Toes to the warmth
Just me and a cousin

Arms round each other
We share a sweet treat
Fresh Snickerdoodles
with little sweetmeats!

Gram's floury apron
she sheds for a chair
brushing a stray tendril
back to her hair.

I have Gram's laugh
I have Gramps smile
I'll have them both
For quite awhile....

Here in my soul
With all my Christmas's
Painted bright forever
On my heart's canvas.

I only need close my eyes
And I'll be there again
Flying on a bright red sled
Building fat white snowmen

Trudging through the drifting blow
Up a darkened country road
So dark the course I cannot see...
Look up and through the trees

Like a ribbon through the pines
Theres' all the old Christmases
Just follow the skyline...

The Key

She found the key lying soundlessly under the drawer's false bottom.

She knew it was there...all she needed to do is lift to from it's sleep.

Simple, cold steel. So easy, so heavy.

Where there's a key, there's a lock, she thought.

Why lock it up? 

Lock what up?

My point exactly.

Is it valuable?

Secret?

Shameful?

Painful?

Through the dark halls the key rode silently in her pocket.

Past door after door with no keyholes.

Nothing shameful.

Nothing of value.

Nothing to hide.

Then, there it was.

The door with the keyhole.

The only door in the house with a keyhole.

The key grew warm in her hand.

What if she discovered the secret?

The shame of what lay hidden beyond the keyhole.

The valuable thing that needed to be locked against theives.

Or hearts.

Her palm grew moist.

The key waited, trembling.

Given the chance, it would reveal and she'd know everything.

Fear fought the key in her pocket.

The battle was epic.

Fear won out.

The key knew it would never win, salved it's wounds and went back to sleep in the drawer.

She knew it's hiding place.

She could go there later.

Or not.

Christmas is Hummin'

It was late November.

"No Christmas music 'til after Thanksgiving," he decreed.

But she went to buy brocolli, coffee and paper towels.
And there it was.

Joy to the World.

Out the store PA and into her ears.
And into her heart and into her head.
And she hummed it under her breath through the day.
"I hear you humming. That's a Christmas song, isn't it?  Stop that!" he demanded.
But she went to buy a dress.

Nothing fancy, nothing special, nothing for Christmas.

And there it was.

Silent Night. Holy Night and FaLaLaLaLa....playing out loud among the chrome racks of simple clothes.

And then playing in her head.

And she hummed it quietly as she did the dishes.

"I hear you," he said.

But she went to the bank.  Ah sweet respite! No Christmas music to dodge.

On the way home, she saw it...the tree lot. 
THE Tree Lot.
She stopped for just a sniff of the fresh, wet evergreen.

And there it was.

Oh Tannenbaum blasting from tin loudspeakers.

She hurried away, humming.

She slid the turkey into the oven.

And hummed in Excelsis Gloria.
He raised an eyebrow and went to greet the guests.
She washed the last dish and hummed Silver and Gold.

It was time.

"Do You Hear What I Hear?" she asked.
"We need a Little Christmas," he replied.
"Does this mean I can hum?" she inquired under the mistletoe.
"Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," he granted.
Then I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus.

Covenant Storm

The covenant storm arose,

Drifting over the orchard...

A grey theatre curtain stretched by a contented God.

Joy rose in her heart like a prayer.

The drops began at the end of the porch.

Big splotches and small, hitting shoes, hair, shoulders.

The sky cried with solace, promise.

Tears and rain mingled...her signature,

her vow,

her contract...

Her covenant with God.

Winter's Children

Snow fell all day, straight down, like a hushed, white curtain.
She sat within, rocking, smiling.
He said, "Old woman, what's got you smilin?"
"Nothin," she said.
But the quivering wouldn't stop.
Under her ribs, under her starched apron, dusted with flour.
My! I'm too old for this, she thought, trying to be aggravated.
Still...she thought as the window tugged at her eyes.
Still...the snow fell.
Was it only inches deep now, maybe feet?
Was the bread done?
Check the bread...and the apple stump by the pond...just a glance.
Her fingers shook a little, lifting the pans from the oven.
Dumping the crusty brown loaves to the table.
Slathering the tops with butter.
Covering the hot bread with towels.
Just a glance but she'd seen.
So undignified, she thought, but to no avail.
Eyes closed, she swayed close to the fragrant loaves....inhaled deep.
"What you thinkin' about, old woman?" he asks with humor.
"How good this bread smells," she replied with relish.
Snow angels, she thought, a red sled with FLYER painted white on it's seat.
She moved back to the rocker.
Her smile returned.
"What you thinkin' about now, old woman?" he asked.
"How you're gonna have to shovel the drive." she replied.
A snowman with coal eyes, she thought.
The snow still fell, heavier now.
Darkness began spilling from the edge of the woods.
There it was again...a tremble under her ribs.
A small, delicious shiver in her feet.
You're too old for this, she thought, and tried to be annoyed.
"I hate going out in this," he grumbled.
"I should check the chickens," she replied.
"Wear your boots, old woman," he called.
She never heard.
He watched at the window, smiling.
Wonder what she'd say if I brought the toboggan down from the attic, he thought.

Breaking the Frost

Blades...

Grey-brown....

Crunch.

Coated with cold powdered sugar....

Flawless crystals bruise under heavy black boots.

He knows, but turns anyhow, wanting to see.

He tracks each step from the sleeping house to his feet...

each footfall altering forever the untouched frost...

bending the dormant grass...

making hollows of dark grey-green...
Under each tread.

Only his steps, his alone.

No one else follows to deepen the imprints...

to alter the stamp with size or shape...

to disturb the singular path.

He turns back.

Agatha waits, her Jersey coat russet in delicate morning light.

She waits.

Enduring...sedate...clouds of warm breath blooming into the cold, still pasture.

She waits.

He inhales, smiles, walks on...in the frozen daybreak.

He alone owns the stillness here.

He alone dares break the frost.

Dave

One of four, unique from all
with a kickstart gait,
glittering, sunrise eyes.
A briarwood pipe
clenched in tight, white teeth
spiraled cherry tobacco smoke
upward,
twining
through taffy curls.
Hard hands gripped a Garand
Across Korea.
Watched friends die.
Cried for his own soul.
Then time marched on.
With soft voice
he declared patriotic testimony,
whispered a father's prayer,
expressed a husband's love.
Devotion and adoration
bound him,
willinghearted,
to her, the wife of many years.
Years
measured not by clocks or calendars
but by a changing of the seasons.
Their hearts held hands.
He was short in stature, yet tall in honor.
Known only by a handful here,
He will cause millions to rejoice at his arrival.
We'll see you later, Dave.

E. Strain
12/14/1995
A tribute to my uncle, Elvin David Traver
To those of us who loved him he will be sorely missed

Hunting Season

The day brought snow...tracking snow.
And the hunters.
In their neon orange vests,
and black wool pants,
they gathered.
Storm door creaks and slams.
Creaks and slams.
Creaks and slams.
Balls of snow
skid and slide
across dark linoleum.
Voices punch heavy air with rich laughter.
Snow encrusted gloves
dry in line
on a warm oven door.
Wool drapes chair backs,
warm, wet, black, red,
plaid.
Always plaid.
Gun oil, this gathering's cologne...pipesmoke, it's incense.
Open chambers, steel grey barrels, rest over hunting shirt arms.
Stocks are stroked, triggers tested.
Stories swapped.
The tradition continues.
With a chocolate bar, a box of shells,
and a dream.

E Strain
2/16/98

To enjoy more of this artist's magnificent work, visit kywildlifeartist.com

Climber's Morning

Shards of birdsong

scatter through the sleeping Valley.

Stillness is shattered.

Breezes brush

gentle fingers

over sleeping hemlock.

Rising boughs,

freshened,

stretch Heavenward,

Singing prayers

of adoration

to God.

Faithfully, light bathes the cliff side, washing it's face in Royal splendor.

This is the day that the Lord has made.

This is a climber's morning.

E. Strain

2/16/98

Once Upon a Time

The room was pink...sweet pea pink.

Crisp white cotton sheets under

cotton candy chenille bedspreads.

Pastel icing over twin beds.

White pine shelves, dark with the oil

of years of hands

choosing books.

My ABCs'

Three Bears

Treasure Island

Swiss Family Robinson.

Bindings loved to shreds, replaced with calico,

glued on with the white of an egg.

Secret cubbies, with pine cones, nicked porcelain teacups painted with violets.

Tiny dolls with gunnysack dresses and yarn hair smelling of the attic.

In the buckled plaster and paint of the ceiling,

a woman's profile,

like Grandma's cameo with a fancy frame.

Summer thunderstorms come slowly across the orchard.

The smell of warm metal and wet hay...

rain splattering off the porch roof

through the rusty screen

til darkness lowers.

Quiet voices rise through a floor register.

Fingers of light slip under the old door,

glide across worn rag rugs,

caress a brow,

kiss a sleeping angel.

E. Strain

2/16/98

Childhood Bedroom

The double-block farmhouse was well over a hundred years old. My sister and I shared the big pink bedroom that sprawled over the second floor. Memories return me to the security of that place when regression seems the only salve for life's wounds.

It's walk-in closet had a tiny, low window---perfect for a cozy playhouse. Crisp white cotton sheets were hidden by candy-colored chenille bedspreads that lay like pastel icing over our bed. Bookshelves held our favorite storybooks, their bindings loved into shreds, then carefully replaced with calico scraps held on with the white of an egg. Hand-hewn wooden shelves held our treasures---pine cones, nicked porcelain teacups painted with delicate faded violets, tiny dolls with gunnysack dresses. Long, faded blue curtains captured every warm breeze.

Faintly buckled plaster and paint made patterns in the ceiling. If I lay on my bed just right, I could see the profile of a pretty woman, like my gramma's cameo, complete with a fancy frame.

During summer thunderstorms, we'd lay across my bed overlooking the porch roof and watch the world turn shimmering green and wet. The rain spattered off the roof, filtered through the rusty screen, and flicked drops on our cheeks and lips.

At night, quiet voices rose with the warm air from the floor grates. fingers of light from the hall lamp slipped under our door and spread over the rag rugs by our beds, giving us the feeling of being safe and guarded.

South Mountain

At the top of old South Mountain,
In the Pennsylvania hills,
There’s the ring of waking birdsong
In the early morning chill.
Sunlight warms the moss-cloaked granite
Of an ancient field stone row.
Then filters through white birches
Where the pale green sweet ferns grow.
Misty fog that shrouded landscape
Veiling all in opaque green,
Has now faded with the morning
Painting leaves with dewy sheen.
Beneath layers of rich leaf mold
In all shades of nut-brown earth
The sweet, tiny Winterberry
Presses forth for all it’s worth!
Deeper still the fresh spring waters
Flow beneath the tangled roots
To fill waiting moss-lined reservoirs,
dark homes for bright red newts.
Life is new and fresh and singing, tonic for the soul within
Among maple stands in April, at the top of old South Mountain.

E. Strain
Spring, 2000

Faerie

Faeries arrive in the charm-struck moment.
Sun sets without waking Moon.
Light clings, hovering.
Air is suspended, the wood holds it’s breath and listens.
Swirling, a streaking thread through evening mist, parting the heavy, still air, leaving empty trails inches wide in their wake.
The wings, hundreds, heard before beheld.
Tiny, ethereal, with color barely there, visible when they, being only shapes of energy, alight a curved, arthritic branch for but a moment.
Then the heat diffusing the darkness, shards of light, glittering off gnarled Oak bark.
The dance has begun.
Minikin fingers, illuminant slivers, entwine.
Warmth marries light as a dervish of hushed wings spin, a luminous vortex of tinkling laughter, finally bursting apart in abandon.
Opalescent limbs loop through fireflies, snatching at beetle wings with milky-white toes.

Snippets of rose petals, wrinkled, softened by tiny fingers, sewn with gossamer cobweb, wreath imperceptible waists and shoulders.
Dewdrops, balanced on ethereal palms become gazing balls.
Faces, appearing in the roundness, laugh.
The laughter finds a muse in cricket music and the Bohdran beat of a ruffled grouse.

The charm-struck moment before Moon end; it draws breath, consuming the twilight.
Only iridescent wings glint, converging on the Faerie Ring.
Perched, each to a cap, their silver song slips into the spirit of those before them.
Ancient voices, quickened from time before time
Blend, swell, fill the wood.
An eternal lullaby, and the wood sleeps.
~E. Strain~
2007

To see more exquisite faeries, view the incomparable work of Brian Froud at http://worldoffroud.com/index.html

His Journey's End

The city howls and claws, shreds his soul,
attacks his Saf-T-Glass windshield.
Furious,
trembling in rage,
jealous of his journey.

The disk slips in.
Harps take wing,
shrouding dash and leather
like thick highland mist.
Sacred rhythms pour into his unlocked soul,
tear through heart and lungs,
rip through veins.
His deep heart’s passion
knows the blood wisdom.
The Music, the Elixir.
Within the steel cloister, his journey begins.
Uilleann pipes draw his spirit
over verdant, ancestral hills
through timeworn castle walls
down ancient druid paths.
His memory kneels within the Faerie Ring.
The city shrinks. Smaller and smaller, he leaves death.
Quickening comes with O’Carolan’s harp.
Cadence of engine and Bodhran fuse
In a canon his soul has known since before he was.
Before his eyes saw light and knew the city.
This pulse---
This elemental---
Is Celtic.
Is Eire.
Is the journey’s end.

E. Strain~1998

My Mother

I study her, this woman, my mother.
Dove down hair, bluebird eyes, watercolor skin.
Dainty shells dance, delicate
Over the sweater in baby pink.
It falls loose,
unfettered,
over her long frame.
She is tall, this woman.
Long arms swing easy
side to side
as she walks
tall and proud.
Hope and faith
dance an eternal minuet
in her soul.
Only sleep will slow her dance.
Only Heaven will replace it.

E. Strain
12/09/95