christmas poems


The dim attachment of the year

the pit, the cavern where the sun rests

what's more, debilitates never to rise,

at the point when misery drops delicately as the snow

covering all ways and stifling streets:

at that point hawkfaced torment seized you

tossed you so you fell with a sharp

cry, a blade tearing an electrical discharge.

My dad heard the accident yet paid

no brain, snoozing after lunch

however fifteen hundred miles north

I heard and dropped a dish.

Your agony sunk claws in my skull

also, hunched there cawing, overwhelming

as an incredible vessel loaded with water,

oil or blood, till abruptly following day

the weight lifted and I knew your brain

had guttered out like the Chanukah

candles that smolder so quick, sobbing

cover of wax down the chanukiya.

Those candles were laid out,

companions welcomed, fixings purchased

for latkes and apple hotcakes,

that occasion for freedom

what's more, the winter solstice

at the point when tops turn like little planets.

Might you have win or bust

take half or go by untouched?

Nothing you got, Nun said the dreydl

as the room quit turning.

The holy messenger collapsed you up like clothing

your body dainty as a vacant dress.

Your garments were window ornaments

holding tight the window of what had

been your fragile living creature and now was glass.

Outside in Florida malls

amplifiers blastd Christmas ditties

also, palm trees were decked with squinting

lights. But by the traveler

lodgings, the shorelines were unfilled.

Pelicans with pregnant pockets

fluttered overhead like pterodactyls.

In my brain I felt you kick the bucket.

In the first place the torment lifted and afterward

you glimmered and went out.

Teachers Day Poems


I stroll through the rooms of memory.

Some of the time everything is covered in dropcloths,

each seat spooky and quieted.

Different times memory illuminates from inside

clamoring scenes acted only the opposite side

of a scrim through which clearly I could reach

my fingers tearing at the feeble drapery

of time which is and isn't and will be

the stuff of which we're made and unmade.

In rest an evening or two ago I met you, seventeen

your first terrible marriage just repealed,

dainty from your fetus removal, gripping a book

against your cheek and attempting to look

more seasoned, attempting to took white collar class,

striving for an occupation at Wanamaker's,

dressing for gatherings in push off

stage outfits of your sisters. Your eyes

were cloudy with dreams. You didn't

notice me waving as you meandered

 Christmas Wishes Merry Christmas

past and I saw your slip was appearing.

You stopped while I settled your garments,

as though I were your mom. Recollect that me

brushing your springy dark hair, curls

that appeared to be metallic, sparkling;

recollect that me dressing you, my seventy year

old mother who was my last dollbaby,

giving you past the point of no return what your childhood had needed.

new year 2017


What is this veil of skin we wear,

what is this dress of tissue,

this layer of few hues and little hair?

This well proportioned fuming load of longings

what's more, fears, squeaking mice turned up

in a steaming pile with their infants?

This coat has been passed on, a legacy

this layer of dark hair and adequate substance,

this layer of pale somewhat bronzed skin.

This arrangement of hips and thighs, these rear end

they gave padding to my grandma

Hannah, for my mom Bert and for me

what's more, we as a whole sat on them thusly, those major

muscles on which we walk and walk and walk

over the earth looking for peace and bounty.

My mom is my mirror and I am hers.

What do we see? Our face developed youthful once more,

our bosoms developed firm, legs incline and exquisite.

Our arms shuddering with fat, eyes

set in the bark of wrinkles, hands puffy,

our midsection seamed with childbearing,

Give me your dress that I may attempt it on.

Goodness it won't fit you mother, you are excessively fat.

I won't fit you mother.

I won't be the lady of the hour you can dress,

the respectful devoted little girl you would bite,

a canine's calfskin issue that remains to be worked out your teeth.

You strike me once in a while just to hear the sound.

Dejection transforms your fingers into snares

spiked and drawing blood with their stroke.

My twin, my sister, my lost adoration,

I convey you in me like a developing life

as once you conveyed me.


Author's Notes/Comments: 

Christmas Poems

 good morning quotes


View buso's Full Portfolio