When you think about it, it’s amazing how sunshine, or the lack thereof, affects our mood and sense of well being. Given all that is happening in the world and with our economy, the short days and overcast skies (for those not blessed with living in a place like Southern California) that come with this time of the year seem like insult added to injury. All of us are influenced by how much light we receive in our lives, but some more so than others. Hence, the following poem:

Seasonal Affective Disorder

Why not something less clinical.

like the sunset blues?

or perhaps, rather, winter’s spell?

Till autumn recalls April, dues

are paid in sunshine,

a loss that lights the shortened fuse,

turning kin into things unkind,

thoughts to puddled mud.

Watch a grandfather clock unwind

until one’s sense of bad and good

looms inconsistent

as his or her shifting mood,

where nothing makes an impression,

huddled under cover,

but this dissembling depression

over the life of friend and lover,

waiting for the swell

of spring, when hell freezes over.

John Pidgeon

The New Year is progressing with astonishing speed. Seems like the Rose Parade has just ended, and already more than a week has flown by. A valued friend from the Pacific Northwest dropped me a note, asking me to comment on the momentous presidential inauguration coming up soon, as well as the new Surgeon General. (Does anyone remember any Surgeon General since C. Everett Koop?) However, I prefer to let the pundits pontificate on such weighty topics, especially as there is no shortage of them on any given channel you care to view. Perhaps, if my ire gets sufficiently high, I’ll jump in with my own irrelevant opinions. Until then, at least for today, I’ll stick to sharing poetry with you. As someone once famously observed, we need poets, for we don’t pay them enough to lie to us. That’s more than can be said for pundits.

One Question

I ask the Parkinson’s patient

how she wants to live:

            “purposefully, like rain.”

               I imagine high clouds –

               angry water motionless

               over a wide Mesozoic desert.

            the stroke patient:

            “whole, like a symphony.”

               I take notes about notes –

               listening for silent spaces.

            The Alzheimer’s patient:

            “aware, like Spring.”

               I see seeds scattered

               by the wind –

               what they hold.

Michael Wynn

My apologies to all of you who have stopped by and left kind wishes for the holidays, as I have not been able to get back to you for the past several weeks. In case you are interested, we had a wonderful Christmas Eve dinner with family and friends, followed by a spectacular meal Christmas day, thanks to the culinary talents of our nephew and his girlfriend, both professional chefs. I sincerely hope all of you survived the last minute pressures this time of year always seems to bring, and were able to share your celebrations with someone near and dear. My best present, the visit home of my favorite poet, is sadly drawing to an all too rapid end, as his flight leaves in the morning for Paris. Still, I have the consolation of irreplaceable moments shared together, coupled with the knowledge that I shall be able to see him and his lovely wife again soon in the New Year. I’m working this weekend, but promise to resume my weekly postings before another Saturday rolls around, as well as taking the time to visit with all of you, whose writings I have missed. We, along with the rest of the world, appear to have a challenging year ahead of us. Let us hope we shall all be given the grace, humor, and good fortune to get through it together. Happy New Year!

J.