Evergreen

Evergreen

For
Christmas
one  year my
grandmother  got  a
small poinsettia, feet wrapped
in green foil, top red as the blood
 on the split palms of Jesus over her bed,
a scarlet  exotic swaying its  tropical  hips,

taller each winter, bloomlessly braced on a broken
hula-hoop, reborn evergreen; in her house, like Christmas,

things always
lived..

~December 2013

55 red, green and blue memories for     the g-man

Process notes: photo is of my Swedish grandparents, Clara and Ragner, on one of their sixty-odd wedding anniversaries.( I'm guessing year 30 here.) My grandmother's dress was river blue with grey-blue, pale green, and white paisleys, very filmy, and my grandfather's tie, his favorite, was dark blue and loud with a gold/deep green leaf design. The poinsettia was literally both an exotic and an extravagance back then--I believe it was a gift from one of my uncles--and it did end up, rather emaciated but huge ,staked  on an old red hula-hoop in a giant pot, where it grew like a vine and was alive the last time I saw her, Christmas 1976,

Photo (c) joyannjones. All rights reserved.

In Clara's House

In Clara’s House

In your house

Christmas was always kept

my grandfather getting the tree

from the VA lot, cheap and scrawny,

you and I making it fit to be seen

before the sisters and the cousins came

to eat.

In your house

a discard was an ornament

something broken could be fixed

and used again

something ugly could be cleaned

and put in a place of pride

unique.

In your house

African violets ruled in fertile hosts,

as big as geraniums, green guards with mauve caps

or cobalt, protecting every table, every window,

grown from microleaves I watched you cut and

place on soil like rows of crops from the farm 

you couldn’t have.

In your house

you set the table

carved and heavy, massive made,

covered with lace where all the family came 

for groaning meals, where on off days

a child could hide between the legs

and be a lion.

In your house

a child with one mother lost

could have another found, 

in tales and talk, in times

smelling of coffee cardamom

and soap, mother hands brushing princess hair,

braiding it into dragontails.

In your house,

Christmas was always kept.

The tree star watched while we sang

and the casual blows and formal fear,

the hidden anger and secret prisons

of that other house

were nothing for awhile.

December 2010

Clara & Ragnar with african violet, 195?

This poem was originally posted last year at the inimitable One Stop Poetry, reposted for dVerse Poets Pub 

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, and Happy Holidays in all shapes and forms to my friends, fellow poets and all reading this.

Header Photo of Clara Mathilda Carlson taken by Robert Studio, Chicago, Ill, 195?

In Clara's House

In Clara’s House

In your house

Christmas was always kept

my grandfather getting the tree

from the VA lot, cheap and scrawny,

you and I making it fit to be seen

before the sisters and the cousins came

to eat.

In your house

a discard was an ornament

something broken could be fixed

and used again.

something ugly could be cleaned

and put in a place of pride

unique.

In your house

African violets ruled in fertile hosts,

as big as geraniums, green guards with mauve caps

or cobalt, protecting every table, every window,

grown from microleaves I watched you cut and

place on soil like rows of crops from the farm 

you couldn’t have.

In your house

you set the table

carved and heavy, massive made,

covered with lace where all the family came for

groaning meals, and on off days

a child could hide between the legs

and be a lion.

In your house

a child with one mother lost

could have many found, in tales and talk

smelling like coffee and cardamon,

and soap, mother hands brushing princess hair,

braiding it into dragontails.

In your house,

Christmas was always kept.

The tree star watched while we were singing

and the casual blows and formal fear

the hidden anger and secret prisons

of that other house,

were nothing for awhile.

December 2010

Posted for One Shot Wednesday at the inimitable One Stop Poetry 

Photo of Clara Mathilda Carlson taken by Robert Studio, Chicago, Ill, 194?