I step silently through the streets, colours beneath my feet, as i crouch to the floor. A drum beckons me close and i strap its frame to my body. There are voices on the air, excitement and rainbows interlaced in the fabrics of those around. The echoing of bells, there sound swells and ricochets off bricks. Shakers and surdo´s, glitter and gold. Timba´s and conga´s on the old and the young. A whistle blows sharp across the throng. The sounds of the sun, from the ground to the sky. An elephant draped in silk, crafted by man, rolls down the street, followed by children swift of foot. Dancers twirling and rejoice in every voice heard. A parade of life, sounds and colour, a community together for a moment. Food shared on long tables, talk and friendship. The heart of Brazil in the passion of France.

Laura Berry

My heart slips,
falls.
Ice encrusted long ago,
disappointed.
Abandoned. Ignored.
Disgorged.

Shattered sound
ricochets.
Too late I understand.
I am the abandoner.
Aortic contractions
in northernmost veins.

Earth shudders
heaves
lets go,
as I have her.

Anmol hosts Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today, she asks us to explore confessional poetry. In Confessional, whose voice is heard in the first stanza? The confessor appears in the second and third stanza. This is how I felt when we took our trip to Alaska several years ago. I witnessed and heard the calving that is occurring more and more as we ignore the plight of our earth. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!

The clock struck two
I heard a ding
Waiting for the second
Still waiting…
The second ding did not ring
.
With a raised brow
Approaching the clock
Its face cracked
The clock had stopped
An eerie air encircled me
Can it be?
.
The midst of a storm
Yet no sound now heard
I look out the window
A motionless bird
Stuck in flight with its wings outstretched
.
The trees bent by the wind
Yet static they remain
Water droplets suspended
Like frozen rain
.
I open the door
And walk the street
Emotions captured on faces
Smiles, pain and sadness
The beauty and ugliness exposed
Unfinished thoughts
Traveling feet
.
Overwhelmed i take a seat
There is a sacredness
I cannot touch, just observe
It was best i left them undisturbed
I studied the scene for what seemed hours
Every expression etched in my mind
.
The…

I am a person with a very uneven Christmas life.

When I was a kid, the quality of Christmas – not the presents but the mood – depended on whether business at our Ben Franklin Store had been good or not so good. There were many years when our chops got busted by the K-Mart down the road and then there were years when my father’s savvy and tenacity outwitted the “Big Guys” as he called K-Mart. It was always the Little Guy (singular) vs. the Big Guys (very plural).

My mother, by doing the same modest things every year, the tree, the lights, the stockings, the late dinner, made Christmas a little shining haven for our family, all of us working in the store until the last shopper left on Christmas Eve. We always patched along, if that makes sense.

Then there were the Christmases with a husband and in-laws…