The Bluebird Word

An Online Literary Journal for Poetry and Flash

Tag: Winter Holiday Issue 2024

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Nana’s Christmas Cactus

4 December 2024 /

Nonfiction by MD Bier

We were always visiting my grandparents. Pop Pop grew roses. Nana grew Christmas cactuses. Every spring and summer they appeared. They took over the breezeway. These long, small white containers a couple of inches high filled with Christmas cactus on every available shelf and open space. They grew so viney draping to the floor.

In winter, they mysteriously disappeared. Vanished. The breezeway too cold for them. Unheated, they would have shivered and died.  Don’t know where Nana put them in winter. No one remembers them blooming at Christmas or being displayed on the hutch, coffee tables, or end tables. Every spring they reappeared like magic taking up the same amount of space as the previous summer.

Two of my younger sisters asked Nana for her Christmas cactus. She gave them a few pieces to take home. Those few pieces grew into a huge Christmas cactus. Each sister has pieces of the original and grew their own Christmas cactus. They are now old. Forty, fifty years old. The original older than that.  Blooming year after year. Becoming more beautiful the older they get. Elegance in aging.

She has well-grounded roots. No prickly points. Smooth, dark green leaves. Growing high. Bushy. Numerous strands of stems and leaves, some trailing. The oldest stems thick and woody. Not really a cactus. She loves dappled sunlight and lots of talking.

When the birds fly south in September, it’s lights out at five o’clock. A few months of the year, Planty likes it cool and dark so she blooms for Christmas. It’s her winter. Once the first buds appear and as the first double petaled fuchsia flowers blossom, we tell her she’s gorgeous.

Pop Pop’s roses need lots of water, and Nana’s Christmas cactus needs little.

My Nana was low maintenance like the Christmas cactus. Not fussy or prickly. Well grounded. Spunky. Her Irish skin burned in the sun just like her Christmas cactus. Pro anything Irish. Worked hard. Cooked holiday dinners, not everyday dinners.  College-educated, well-read, artist extraordinaire. Wished I had asked for her art books. Her vision grew thick and woody like her Christmas cactus stems, and we saw less and less of her after my Pop Pop passed away. Their charm couldn’t charm the grief away. Nowadays, even though Nana is long gone, she showers all our cactuses with her magic, ensuring they bloom beautifully at Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter. Extremely healthy. Age defying. I don’t think when Nana gave my sisters those few pieces of Christmas cactus, she ever expected them to live, let alone create five other plants miraculously still living over half a century later.

MD Bier is a binge reader and always has book. Her writing reflects her passion for social change and social issues. She is part of several writing communities where she writes and studies. She’s published in various literary journals. She resides in NJ with her family and dog.

Photo by Michael Hacker on Unsplash

The Calm Before

2 December 2024 /

Poetry by Nicole Hirt

fog hovers
over Colorado peaks
sculpted with snow
and flecked with pines

Run, run, run.

snowflakes trickle
from a grey sky
tickling my eyelashes
with white kisses

Run, run, run.

cold burns
my feet as they race
through mounds of powder
soft and wet

the alarm blinks on my phone:
“A blizzard is coming. Please find shelter.”

Run, run, run.

Nicole Hirt is a freelance writer based in South Florida. She is an editor at Living Waters Review, where several of her poems and prose have appeared in past issues. In her free time, she enjoys wandering through cemeteries, much to the confusion of the general public.

Photo by Christina DelliSante on Unsplash

First of December

1 December 2024 /

Poetry by Suzy Harris

Every wet leaf underfoot
gives a little sigh. Sounds like
squish squish. And every
almost bare branch bends down
in supplication. December
begins quietly, not yet wanting
to slam the door on the old year.

We have four more weeks
to finish the unfinished,
care for the untended,
seek the sublime. Each day
unfolds like the first paragraph
of a new story. We don’t know
how it ends.

Suzy Harris lives in Portland, Oregon. Her poems have appeared in Clackamas Literary Review, Willawaw Journal, and Wild Greens, among other journals and anthologies. Her chapbook Listening in the Dark, about hearing loss and learning to hear again with cochlear implants, was published by The Poetry Box in February 2023.

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Snow

1 December 2024 /

Poetry by Charlene Stegman Moskal

She wrote of remembered afternoon skies
dark like tarnished silver,
sleet that dissolved on sidewalks
elusive, slippery as words in the mouths of liars.

Cold wormed its way under sleeves,
collars, through the spaces
between buttons on coats heavy
with the lightness of snowflakes.

Pristine white covered the ground as if to protect it
from the intrusion of tires and footsteps;
wires now unfit roosts for evening starlings
as clouds silently delivered the rest of their bounty.

By afternoon slush piled against curbs;
made men and women hop and leap
like children playing in a puddle,
but without the laughter and joy—

snow an annoyance,
something to be avoided,
something to get over and through,
its wonder short lived, shoveled into the past.

Her memories written in November,
reread months later as something forgotten
from those days before he left her
ice-grieved in the cold of December.

Charlene Stegman Moskal is published in numerous anthologies, print and online magazines including: TAB Journal, Calyx, and Humana Obscura. Her chapbooks are One Bare Foot (Zeitgeist Press), Leavings from My Table (Finishing Line Press), Woman Who Dyes Her Hair (Kelsay Books), and a full poetry collection, Running the Gamut from Zeitgeist Press.

Photo by Joshua Woroniecki on Unsplash

Forever

1 December 2024 /

Poetry by Susan Zwingli

I remember we came this way,
flirty, azure sports car filled to the brim,
old vinyl records, thick-lined winter boots, grandmother’s quilt
Full of the start of it all,
the beginning of everything
How is it possible that 30 years later,
I return this way, alone?
Is it just my imagination,
or does your laughter still echo in the winter wind?
Are those your footprints in the snow?
The sighing cornfields stir, crackled leaves rustling
All the endings press against my heart
Just then, a flock of snow geese startle
In feathered white waves, they lift upward, upward,
carrying my whispered goodbye, leaving a strange peace
I turn to leave, those old boots crunching snowdrift,
feeling new beginnings in my wings

Susan Zwingli has been published in the 2023 One Page Poetry Anthology and in the May 2024 edition of The Bluebird Word. She has a B.A. in English and a M.A. in Spiritual Formation. She lives in Richmond, VA, and writes about love, loss, survival, healing, and spirituality.

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December Portrait

1 December 2024 /

Poetry by Jennifer Susan Smith

Love waned atop clouds in August’s last dance,
above my reach, beyond my grasp, concealed
from eyes that believed in a second chance.
Summer ebbed lyrics my love song revealed.

As faded sun welcomed harvest’s first chill,
romance retreated when forlorn leaves fell,
and fall-frosted pumpkins circled morning still,
no love story that autumn’s moon could tell.

All soulmates do not whisper, sing, or write
verses vowing eternity through rhyme,
poems of ocean-drenched kisses at midnight,
October sonnets bound in words and time.

On solstice of winter, his blue eyes free,
my hues on canvas, artist painted me.

Jennifer Susan Smith, a retired speech-language pathologist, resides in northwest Georgia. Her writing is published or forthcoming in The Bluebird Word, WELL READ Magazine, First Literary Review-East, and Letting Grief Speak. She is chairman of Alpha Delta Kappa Pages and Pearls Book Club, and holds membership in Chattanooga Writers’ Guild.

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Snowblind

1 December 2024 /

Poetry by Stephen J Cribari

Launched with a shove (Do you remember the day?)
One by one on sleds we sailed away
In a wild flying descent of the frozen hill
Then gathered by a snow mobile until
A few kids at a time we were hauled uphill

But you, when your turn came, you had to tease
Your sled beyond the familiar way. Unchecked
You sped head first into the sun and the trees
But too fast -! This time too fast. You wrecked
Among the trees where snow hid the rocks and leaves.

I watched you struggle upright in the snow,
Collect yourself, and determined turn to go
Back uphill hauling your sled behind.
And I watched you watch us watching you: you saw
The way we stared at you – your parents, friends –
Squinting towards you into the sun snow blind.

Then you turned as you’d never turned before,
Turned and looked about you with a raw
Look of expectation, blind to us
As if drawn toward something endless. Thus
You turned, the child the man, who comprehends
That now is when he begins, or when he ends.

Stephen J Cribari’s poetry and plays have been performed in the United States and abroad. He resides in Minneapolis, Minnesota. His poetry has been published recently in Patterson Literary Review and The Bluebird Word. Still Life (2020) and Delayed en Route (2022) are published by Lothrop Street Press.

Photo by Arun Kuchibhotla on Unsplash

A How-To Guide on Decorating Our Christmas Tree

1 December 2024 /

Nonfiction by Andrea Figueroa-Irizarry

  1. Look for the gardening gloves in the garage. There will be three pairs, and one has a hole in the palm where needles can enter. Your stepdad will usually volunteer to take that one.
  2. Wrap your arms around the middle of the tree once it’s halfway off the back of the truck. Lift with your legs.
  3. Walk it across the yard and through the front door. Some needles will scrape off the doorframe. Your mom will already be ready with the broom.
  4. Your sister will hold the stand steady while you and your stepdad right the tree and lower it in. There will be four screw bolts on the sides—turn them clockwise until the metal connects with the trunk. Don’t stand up right away, though, as you might need to readjust until your mom and sister deem the tree straight enough.
  5. Decide between two tree skirts. (You’ll always choose the red one.) Connect the Velcro on either side of the stand.
  6. In the blue tub marked X-Mas Lights, you’ll find string lights bundled around a dozen paper towel rolls. Plug one into the wall. Once you find one that works, hold each end on your index fingers and follow your mom as she weaves the green cables through the branches. Start from the top. Be ready to bring the next roll.
  7. Put the fragile ornaments near the top and the wooden ones near the bottom. The dogs will start to sniff the needles as Mom sweeps them; their nose will bring them to the bottom row of branches, and their wagging tails will likely knock a few down.
  8. Most of the ornaments came from your grandparents, your mom will say. Some of them, like the brassy cherubs playing on lyres or the crystalline doves in mid-flight, will be pointed out more than others. Care for these the most.
  9. End with the ornaments in the red and white boxes. One is dated for your parents’ wedding anniversary. Another shows a soccer ball and two hanging cleats from middle school. Two more have a cap and gown for you and your sister. You will not mean to, but the ones for the dogs will go up last. You will always make sure to bundle them close together on the tree.
  10. Decide between the tinsel ribbon or the checkerboard ribbon. (You’ll always end up with the tinsel one.) Follow your mom around the tree as she pinches and curls the ribbon around the ornaments.
  11. Place a few more ornaments. Change a few others. Make sure your name is near your sister’s.
  12. Position the dogs under the tree. Take videos and pictures. They will move, and most of the photos will be blurry, but when you look back on those moments, you will hear your family’s laughter blend with the holiday music in the background.

Andrea Figueroa-Irizarry was born in Puerto Rico and raised with a North Florida accent. She writes fiction and nonfiction about mental health, family, and relationships, and she is currently studying for her MFA at the University of South Florida. When not writing, she can be found cuddling her basset hound.

Photo by Kacper Szczechla on Unsplash

Tilt

1 December 2024 /

Poetry by Kersten Christianson

Under the Falling
Yellow Cedar moon
we solstice. Beef roast

in the slow cooker,
ham bakes in the oven.
Stars and moon align,

twinkle in cavernous
bookshelves, where
the printed word basks

in the spoken. My dad
and brother taste test
each other’s pickled fish,

banter over the better.
Gloria’s cake sports
jingle bells, boughs

from last weekend’s
tree falling in a windstorm.
We have come together

before and will again
to celebrate the U-turn
in darkness; name those

no longer with us
in this life, but within
memory’s reach.

Kersten Christianson is a poet and English teacher from Sitka, Alaska. She is the author of Curating the House of Nostalgia (Sheila-Na-Gig, 2020) and Something Yet to Be Named (Kelsay Books, 2017). She serves as poetry editor of Alaska Women Speak. Kersten savors road trips, bookstores, and smooth ink pens.

Photo by Toa Heftiba on Unsplash

Christmas To Go

1 December 2024 /

Poetry by Carol Barrett

Barely after six on a cold December morning, I pull into
my favorite drive-through and order my usual—hazelnut
truffle mocha with whipped cream and caramel drizzle, wait

for the steaming hot cup to glide through my open window.
Suddenly a worker crashes through the front door of the shop,
arms raised, swatting wildly, yanking down all the green

and red foil fringe wafting from rafters. What’s gotten into him?
Some scrooge out to ruin Christmas? Disgruntled employee
bent on revenge? He is determined to eradicate the bling, despite

the company logo Love Abounds bold on his sweatshirt back,
while the two pouring shots and flavors ask, What on earth
are you doing? They too like the giddy décor, pampering spirits.

I overhear his reply, though I am sure they are trained to keep
such revelations to a whisper, so as not to distract the regulars
in urgent need of a wake-me-up, or a soothing hot chocolate.

Turns out the fringe has been blowing all night, yards and yards
of frothy wonder dancing in the warm draft from the furnace,
16-inch silvery slivers shimmering despite absent baristas.

The manager had to call someone four times in the middle
of the night to check on the place, as the motion detector
suspected an intruder making off with state-of-the-art

equipment, high-grade Columbian coffee, or Santa’s tip jar,
red-capped teddy on the handle. She couldn’t imagine
the source of disturbance, finally recalled the seasonal

motif authorized the day before. She hadn’t picked it out
personally, or might have put two strands together sooner.
The choice was what the seventeen-year-old night crew

came up with, naturally prone to glitz and drama. They delivered.
The place now back to bare essentials, my creamy restorative
ready to sip. No bat in the belfry. We can ring in a new day.

Carol Barrett has published three volumes of poetry, most recently Reading Wind, and one of creative nonfiction, Pansies. An NEA Fellow in Poetry, she teaches for Antioch University and Saybrook University. Carol’s poems appear in venues in seven countries, and in over sixty anthologies.

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