The Bluebird Word

An Online Literary Journal for Poetry and Flash

Tag: traditions

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Sounds of Christmas

23 December 2024 /

Poetry by Brian Billings

When we reach December,
the sounds begin to change.
The steady hum of daily life
moves to a higher range.
The beats become staccato
while chording starts to swell.
These are the sounds of Christmas I know well.

The Santas manning city blocks
collect the coins that clink.
Laughter spills from coffee shops
where good friends share a drink.
Bags of presents crinkle.
Chimes on front doors tinkle.
Swishing brooms push flakes away
where snow’s begun to sprinkle.

Cheery fires crackle
where families abide.
Wintry breezes howl and hiss
while lovers kiss inside.
There’s a fizz within the whiz
of shoppers all pell-mell.
These are the sounds of Christmas I know well.

An organ roaring “Allelu!”
will leave you feeling jolly; you
can hear good tidings when the rafters ring.
The glockenspiel and carillon
will help high spirits barrel on
when either instrument begins to sing.

The snap of bursting popcorn
locked in a box of glass.
The piping of a cardinal.
A greeting as you pass.
Not one of these dear novelties
is just a bagatelle.
These are the sounds of Christmas I know well.

Brian C. Billings is a professor of drama and English at Texas A&M University-Texarkana. His work has appeared in such journals as Ancient Paths, Antietam Review, The Bluebird Word, Confrontation, Evening Street Review, Glacial Hills Review, and Poems and Plays. Publishers for his scripts include Eldridge Publishing and Heuer Publishing.

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Christmas 2000

17 December 2023 /

Poetry by Nancy Kay Peterson

I.

A red grapefruit sunrise hugs the horizon
and stark sycamore limbs lance the lunar landscape.
Chimney smoke signals an unreadable message.
Snow creaks in protest at every step.
Cold pierces even the heaviest coats.
It is a handful of days till winter solstice,
then Christmas, then nearly half a year till
the bare branches vanish in greenery, chimneys quiet.

II.

Christmas lights glow like jewels in the dark room
where, Norwegian traditions passed on to me,
an unrelenting weight, will pass to no one.
My Jewish ex-husband tolerated the annual pine invasion.
My Hong Kong husband eschews the antique ornaments
in favor of a minimalist approach — less work.
Scarred globes of my childhood remain boxed
like the Christmas pasts sleeping in my heart.

III.

The few remaining family have happy hour,
call the one uncle left, his days now numbered.
My brother-in-law has brought his mother
from the Aase Haugen Home where an old man
sat in his wheelchair by the door
asking “Can I come, too?” I can’t erase
the thought of one of us there as he is now
waiting for a Christmas that will never come.

The moon’s grin is ever cold, never changing.

Nancy Kay Peterson’s poetry has appeared in The Bluebird Word, Dash Literary Journal, HerWords, Last Stanza Poetry Journal, One Sentence Poems, RavensPerch, Spank the Carp, Steam Ticke, Three Line Poetry and Tipton Poetry Journal. She’s published two chapbooks, “Belated Remembrance” (2010) and “Selling the Family” (2021). For more information, see www.nancykaypeterson.com.

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Feliz Año Nuevo/Happy New Year

2 December 2023 /

Poetry by Amelia Díaz Ettinger

of course, most New Years
Eve, La Nochevieja, were spent
with mi Papá, at home or at La Casa
de España. Him in a tuxedo
to dance with me at intervals
between him and whichever
boy was my fancy at the time.

But mostly it was about the two
of us. Watching fireworks
from the roof of that club,
with its uncertain roots
forged on prejudice
and privilege.

Yet for me the pleasure of la Nochevieja
was staying at home in plain,
comfortable clothes,
with Papi throwing bucket after bucket
of water out the door
—a sacar los males del año

as if our sins and trifle peccadillos
could be washed away with rain

una Nochevieja, he smiled and said,
—pon un huevo en agua
and I did. Placing the raw egg
on a glass of water,
—En la mañana verás el futuro

but in the morning, the future in the glass
was a thin veil of clouded hesitancy,
just as the tide between the young
and the old year. It left no prophesy
of what we would lose, nor
what any New Year can bring back again.

Amelia Díaz Ettinger is a Latinx BIPOC poet and writer. She has three books of poetry and two chapbooks published. Her poetry and short stories have appeared in many literary journals and anthologies.

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Children’s Cookies

23 December 2022 /

Special Selection for the 2022/2023 Winter Holiday Issue

Poetry by Will Neuenfeldt

Baked snowflakes
naked on their trays
await little cousins
armed with butter knives,
ready to blanket the batch
with freshly dyed ice.
The first trays are pristine
with green Tannenbaum’s
adorn with ribbon and stars
while Frosty holds a pipe
in his parabolic smile.
Only then they delve into
Betty Crocker’s nightmare
as frosting blends brown,
sprinkles flurry onto linoleum,
and the older boy is scolded for
the phallus he penned
onto Frosty’s best friend.
Like the sheets of snow
covering the Holiday landscape
they are unique but
thankfully edible and sweet.

Will Neuenfeldt studied English at Gustavus Adolphus College and his poems are published in Capsule Stories, Open, and Red Flag Poetry. He lives in Cottage Grove, MN, home of the dude who played Steven Stifler in those American Pie movies and a house Teddy Roosevelt slept in.

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