A Tea Cup Christmas

This Christmas

we all gave tea cups

full of warm wishes

for fragrant mornings

and peaceful sweetness.

My feet feel like stone.
I can feel every bone
'cuz the weight of the world's
on my head.

My pen's filled with dust.
My brain's turned to rust.
My prospects and pride
have both fled.

I am trying to pray.
Let the Lord have His say.
I am trying to learn
the right lessons.

To show I am ready
faithful, calm, sure and steady
serenity and
acquiescence.

The pen is dry,
bleeding dust
across the page.

The thoughts
have retreated
in fear
of unearthing
the haunted grave
of a
long-dead soul.

In an unseen place...

ages intersect.

At an unknown point,
time folds over on itself,
making a new design

that I cannot comprehend.

Night Prayer

I know you're trying to help me, he said.

I cringed, knowing that meant I'd

miserably failed.

Nevertheless, I continue praying

into the night.

The Suffering of the Season

The lights of the season,

effervescent and twinkling,

belie the suffering--

the anguish

that takes no holiday,

that continues to wash over us

as regularly as the sea

being pulled by the moon

with no respect for the season

or the day.

And yet, we long for this

that we can not touch.

We long for the joy this season brings,

even though we can not feel it.

We reach out for warmth and cheer

however fleeting and short-lived.

We need it to sustain us

in the suffering of the season.

The Complex Onion

Life is a
complex
onion.

Peel back
the layers
and cry.

Open up
life's issues
one by one.

Use up the tissues
as you face
the onslaught
of the many-skinned
problems wrapped
around themselves
in endless sheets
of bitterness.

Life is a
complex onion.

Go after it
with a sharp knife
from the drawer
of your experience
and taste
its complexity.

Musical

The dazzling smiles
explode on youthful, line-less faces.
The manic energy
reaches out from the screen
begging you to catch
the endless optimism,
forever preserved.

Funeral for a Job

Died,
suddenly,
on December ninth.
In lieu of flowers,
please send
kindness.

The old work shirts
lie in a lifeless pile by the trashcan,
a testament to
the Christmas Economy.

Years and years of
navy blue
purged from the closet--
washed downstream.

The new work shirts
joined them today.
They will bleed together
in the rain,
and commingling with my tears,
they will turn purple
with my blood.


Image from Tinypic.

A thick fog
touches the earth.
Hanging low,
it obscures my vision
leaving me
adrift and confused.

I keep on the
ancient path,
traveled by generations
and navigate by
a celestial compass,
trusting I'll
see the
other side.

Fire

The smoldering fire
catches a stray leaf
and spreads
like a virus,
persistent and deadly.

The grass,
dry from decades
of inattention
ignites in an instant,
consuming everything.

The terrain
returns once again
to smoldering.

The ash
blows
in
my face.

The dying tree
has fallen,
bringing up roots
and deeply buried dirt
long forgotten
to the surface.

A painful wound
in the earth,
the animals gather 'round
to see
what can be gleaned
from the upheaval.

And life
begins again.

Christmas Trip

The heady

scent of pine
brings me
racing back
(on metal
roller skates),
to the days
of black and white;
shiny tinsel,
hung on a tree,
six-foot
and Charlie Brown,
to leave room
for heirloom ornaments
that still sit
in my mother's attic
wrapped in
newspaper
with prices
that are
way out of date.