To the pound of a Drum,
To the Flute of a Fife,
To the Swirl of a Striped Flag…
AMERICA MARCHES ON !

To the Cheers of the Crowd,
To the Trumpets Loud,
To the Whirl of a Bright Baton…
AMERICA MARCHES ON !

Past Veterans of Foreign Wars,
Students sending up Roars,
Children with Lemonade Pours…
AMERICA MARCHES ON !

From the Streets of New York
To the Shores of Maine
To the Mountains of Tennessee…
AMERICA MARCHES FREE !

Long may She march,
Long her Torch shine,
This America of yours and of mine,
Filing past line after line,
Exuberance hard to confine…
AMERICA MARCHES FINE !

As the trials of our days lose some of their sting,
And the Joys of our Days have Special Zing,
Descending on us in an Onrushing String…
Gratitude up to Heaven we fling,
As every mortal feels like a King!

O, it is, it is a Wondrous Thing
To savor Life on the First Day of Spring!

[Photo from Flickr by J. Morgan]

They’ll pierce you with arrows, for that is their game…
And never thereafter you passion will tame!

You can try to elude them, dodging the Maim—
But the Cupids will find you, if they have your name!

Try to deny it—Excuses are lame;
Your Heart is held Hostage, it won’t be the same!
You should just enjoy it—Acknowledge their Fame;
Life wasn’t so Wondrous before Cupids came…
And transformed you into a quite Love-struck Dame!

[Photo from Flickr by Chicks5]

Whatever the role, she’s Music made Movement, Movement made Feeling;
Kaleidoscopic Emotion revealing:
Arms become Wings/ Jumps touching the ceiling…
Now spinning, now turning, now reeling!

Many rich years, danced with Laughter and Tears;
Danced with each Feeling the Heart adheres;
Danced with each Loathing the Spirit fears;
Danced with each Nuance Intelligence hears.

But in every moment of every role,
The motion begins…the motion begins in her Soul.

[Photo from Flickr by Megyarsh]

2. “In case of emergency, attach your oxygen mask before attaching any child’s mask. Then attach the mask of the child most likely to support you in old age. Next attach the oxygen mask of your other children–sometimes they surprise ya!”

3. “We’ve gotten you to your destination 15 minutes early. Tell everyone you see. You’d tell ‘em if we got you here late!”

4. “Sorry about those teeth-shattering shakes…and hold on to any loose crowns. The good news is: We did land…. we were not shot down!”

5. “These Jet Jockeys are a lot better at flying than they are at driving. So stay seated with your seatbelts on, until we come to a complete stop.”

DECEMBER IS:
A whiff of Cinnamon, spinning in the air…
The tang of warm Cider, conquering Chill…
Bronzed tones of Churchbells, hearlding Cheer.

DECEMBER IS:
An onrushing of Love, expanding our Hearts.

[Photo from Flickr by Steve Wampler]

VIVANISTA produces this festive game…
Showing jewels, and pearls of South Sea fame;
Elegant tennis bags…and luggage tags, same,
Plus skin care to pamper a beautiful dame !

We eat and drink to the Bright Holiday,
Eggnog and caviar, tray after tray;
Nibbling and giggling we stay and play
With the coolest VIVAS who live by-the-Bay !

So thank you, dear Elves, and thank you some more…
For a December Eve that cheered to the core—
And will long be remembered in VIVA lore!

–by Sandra Foster Lovas

(For a custom Poem to Go by Sandra, email sflovas@hotmail.com)

Like instinctual animals in annual migration, the Hagan clan descended near the small Texas town of Mineral Wells each Thanksgiving. Among the assembled thankful were my four sisters, two parents, and I. Beginning in Dallas, we’d pile ourselves–plus canisters of cranberry and marshmallow-smeared sweet potatoes–into the trusty family auto. Then off we’d roar, singing, “Over the River and Through the Woods!”

Soon we rattled along through a string of tiny towns, stopping only at one, Weatherford. Nothing scenic there, save for an old ornate red granite courthouse, commanding the square. But we halted…to pay homage, Mother reverently intoning: “Mary Martin was born here!” All hail the little lass with the outsized voice…who “matured” into Peter Pan, swinging all over Broadway, belting out, “I’m Flying!”

After a long while to a child, several hours to a clock, we rolled to our destination: A Shetland pony farm, its riding ring encased by white wood fencing. Home to Uncle Tom and Aunt Neenie, so called by all, whatever their technical kin. We walked into a houseful of hugs and handshakes, some from folk seen once a year, some from folk never seen. Didn’t matter. All 50-80 were Hagan kin to some degree or at some remove, or married to such. The house overflowed with turkey and dressing and cranberry sauce, green beans and hot rolls, plus pumpkin pie aplenty—their smells mingling merrily. A vase bursting with maroon-colored mums topped a table. Sure as hugs and hearty greetings, the mums were there each year, draped with white ribbon. Symbols they were: A mum for each year since our hosts had wed, long decades ago, on Thanksgiving Day.

Now any kind of flower, of any color, could a marriage marker make. Maroon mums with white ribbon symbolized far more…the colors of a college with fanatic fans: Texas A&M, the Aggies! Understand: Football is a religion in Texas, and every year on Thanksgiving the Aggies battled arch-rival Texas! Hand-lettered Aggie signs adorned the trees out front, and scores of Hagan kin gave Aggie yells all day. My father, an apostate amid the faithful, had gone to Texas! Overmatched, he kept quiet about that—lacking in valor, perhaps, but avoiding blood split on mince meat pie and giblet gravy!

An ancient family Bible, slightly tattered but revered, graced our November conclave. In it, an informal genealogy was penned. I once poured over those hand-wrought references, searching out our European forebears. Charmed by windmills and wooden shoes, I hoped Dutch blood coursed my veins. Alas, not so. The Hagans, formerly O’Hagans, hailed from Ireland.

A confirmed City girl, I routinely waved off invites to board four-legged creatures. But one Thanksgiving, I was reluctantly persuaded onto a horse…to canter slowly about the barnyard—at first. Then my mount charged toward a tree, limbs outstretched to snatch me! No amount of rein tugging or tough talking could dissuade my horse from this course! Preferring not to tumble into tree limbs, I flung myself hard to the ground. Bruised in body, bruised in ego, I limped into the house—with sympathetic assistance. Safe at last, I burrowed into a big soft bed, thankful not to be dangling from tree limbs. And thankful to be embraced, literally and figuratively, by a large and caring American klan. That thanks reverts back till yet–and reverberates forward.

[Photo from  Stevevoght on Flickr]

Sung to the tune of a certain beloved Disney song…

It’s a World of Fanfare, a World of Flair,
A Vibe that comes in from Everywhere…
How to Act, what to Wear
To a Ball…to a Fair—
It’s a VIVA World!

It’s a World of Fashion, a World of Fun;
Where to Go, What to Do…for Most Everyone;
How to Butter a Bun;
Where to have a good Run—
It’s a VIVA World!

It’s a World of Beauty, a World of Glow,
Full of Cues that keep you right in the Know,
Hemline low? Tie a bow?
Thicken Hair, polish Toe—
It’s a VIVA World!

It’s a World of Parties, a World of Share,
And of Social Soirees for Causes fair,
Whether Arts, whether Health,
It means Giving of Wealth—
It’s a VIVA World!

It’s a World of Travel, a World of WOW,
A Chronicle of what’s Here and Now,
Whether Near, whether Far,
Via Plane, Train, or Car—
It’s a VIVA World!

It’s a World of Poetry, a World of Prose,
A listing of Books that will Banish your Woes,
And keep you from Doze
With no brain cell Froze—
It’s a VIVA World!

It’s a World of Glitter, a World of Glam,
A Guide to save face in any Jam;
What to Praise, what to Slam,
Wine to serve with a Ham—
It’s a VIVA World!

It’s a World of Carpet, a World of Red,
What to wear on your Feet, What to wear on your Head;
How your Life should be Led;
What your Guests should be Fed—It’s a VIVA World!

Written by Sandra Foster Lovas. For one of Sandra’s Poems to Go, call 415-922-7725.