four poems . . . . “We’re all just walking each other home.”
Dec 25, 2025
Benedictions and revelatory and celebratory poems.
Ending today, Yule Tidings.
+—+
I sent my daughter a Lakota beaded leather bag, to shoulder, small enough for poems, sage, small rocks and bones and, well, memories:
Then, unfortunately, my cousin, Jeff Cooper, MD, passed away young — 71. Runner and swimmer, slim as a rail.
Lakota Song for a New Fire Horse Year
leave folded poems and herbs of healing in this daughter’s purse
a bag, beads barely encircling
soft leather, vintage, unused
the seller notes
corn, sage branches
the language of renewal
and holding, not coveting
like white men say, but
the vassal of verdant dreams
some talisman gifted by
father, a crystal, a Gobi
eye, yet so much can
envelope small satchel
cache of memories new
old things that bring tears
the deer skin is soft
durable, a gathering bag
stories inside, maybe
yours to remind you
of a father in transition
always in translation
revolutionary but on a field
inside a valley of mule ear blossoms
maybe just a stellar jay
battles crow, water songs in riverlet
magic, a place where domination
leaves his lips, a rendezvous
for inner peaceful chap
father is no enigma
metamorphosis, magical realism
writing tunes for life, death
regathering, so put sacred
things small into this purse
Lakota Dakota Cheyenne
make your stories YOURS
Paul Haeder 2025
+—+
And then, a poem of healing and sadness — my 71 year old cousin, Jeff Cooper, MD, died, and he was slim as a rail, a runner and swimmer.
Tethering Life on Medicinal Magic of Family
for Jeff Cooper, cousin, memory miner, doctor
trees ebb and flow
like the Pacific he followed
daily runs along succulent pathways
boy of the “east”
Princeton, then Duke
he always looked me straight
in the eye
his hearing messed up from
influenza young
always present inquiring
*
we knew each other as cousins
odd fellows, indeed
yet my Jeff’s mind fancied
so many worlds he never
knew but he drilled down
medicine and baseball
statistical ball lightning
he was, stats of the Dodgers
just like DNA rubbing off
fingertips
*
we were cousins
following two mothers
a bunch of sisters
and “The City” we
explored, that World’s Fair
so many decades ago
I bet he still remembered
the details
as he ran the Palos Verdes hills
*
We went on a journey
Arizona camping
sky islands from desert
hardscrabble to Canadian
zone, rivers and cacti
and he was receptive
wanted knowledge, wanted
details of this prickly pear
talked about that canyon
*
how the world receives
star light amongst
a billion particles a billion
miles away
*
we stopped in Vegas
he insisted, all mangy
from days around our
campfires, the thrill
of that gaudy place
he threw in two twenties
for a seat up close to
the star of the show
Ann Margaret pointed
to us, told the crowd –
hey two handsome young
men here . . . she proceeded to
kiss him on his forehead
his face beamed
*
this is a story still locked
away, repeated from time
to time when I ventured to
visit in California
yes, our journeys diverged
a million light years afar
it seemed, but even so
he recalled with fondness
his aunt, my mother, and
his deceased cousin, my sister
*
the tether he held to was
family, grandparents from Germany
as his grew and grew his
exotic by New Jersey standards
Sri Lankan, his tether to me
a flashy casino show
the taste of desert grains
mixed in with the leather
of a man tethered to memories
+—+
Then one for my esposa, Lisa, a gift for this Yule Tide:
A Smile that Crosses All Emotions
for a wife devoted to stories, cherished items, and vintage husbands
masks, universal holder of vision
shape shifting, spiritual or woman
depicted in wood, Alaskan wood
framed with tough hands, nimble
fingers, Inuit, Eskimo, wood of firs
harvested with metal blade
drying fire, slow curing
anything might come to
fanciful Inuit mind, yet
colors red, black
fire and shadowy forest
wood grain tight
each chip, chiseled
a new image
this a woman
universal in smile
the great land bridge
can you touch the ice
covered stones?
this woman travels still
from Mongolia to Yellow
Knife T’atsaot’inę copper people
pounding tools from yellow metal
this wood holds spirits of
Dene First Nation people’s
art from ancient songs
embers rising, hands cutting
discs of wood, another mask
for a wall, mixed with spirits
from Mexico, Indonesia, Africa
Paul Haeder 2025
+—+
And, yes, one for my mother-in-law, again, a gift of an old wooden birdhouse and some ceramic and glass birds!
hands holding light
for Yvonne Pearce, mother-in-law
maybe I see you there
drawing light into masa
hands touching photographs
new memories, curled, faded
your life captured in traditions
gathering as you have aged
*
birds can always bring us
to the new day, following
geese a half mile up
fifty in a V, connects us
to place, and returns
*
you have moved light
in your own dance with nostalgia
and the precious sounds
of babies delight you as much
as robins jostling for grass
*
days for you are filled
holding onto shadows
from candles not lit
days are always old
you an orphan seeking
*
roots, as you hold
corn husks, recalling
recipes for people
entwined in your DNA
*
light is greener and bluer
in Mexico, on a plain
or high on a volcano
light I see you push
into tamale grit
it’s that ancient light
one I share, old Mexico
older than Mayan pyramids
*
light shining from
wet feathers, crows on wires
watching mourning doves
gathering corn, seeds
your daily ritual feeding
light into your heart
onto that patch of grass
out front, near the sea
a river always moving
into the Pacific
eventually light traveling back
south into your old land, memories
Paul Haeder, Author 