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While I love both arts I find the visual occupies a place separate from the verbal. My photography and my bad poetry occupy two distinct worlds. But please let us know how we can see the work.
========Poem 4 the day ==========
'My Father Does Not Appear When Googled'
"Yet throughout the countryside of my youth,
in the Midwest, there are bridges he built
that are still in place, along creeks and rivers.
And there are houses, too, that he constructed,
in his patience, board by board, nail by nail,
that are still standing, still providing shelter.
In that same country town there are sidewalks
made of concrete, that he poured, in front
of the bank, the post office, the Carnegie library.
Those things are far away now, those faces
vanished all those who walked those streets
in their daily rounds, who crossed those bridges.
In my imagination, it is as though a great wind
has swept through those rooms and buildings,
emptying them, taking the inhabitants away.
In time, the houses too will be carried off,
and the school and the hospital, all diminished
and scattered, until only the bridges remain.
Then even the largest and most enduring
of my fathers works will disappear, lifted
on invisible currents, like elements in a dream.
Yet there are nights when the wind stiffens,
and the dream returns. The streets of the town
come alive once more. Within those shadows
my father strides along an unfinished bridge,
hammer in hand, urging the workers on,
laboring to provide a passage for others."
Jared Carter
========Poem 4 the day ==========
'My Father Does Not Appear When Googled'
"Yet throughout the countryside of my youth,
in the Midwest, there are bridges he built
that are still in place, along creeks and rivers.
And there are houses, too, that he constructed,
in his patience, board by board, nail by nail,
that are still standing, still providing shelter.
In that same country town there are sidewalks
made of concrete, that he poured, in front
of the bank, the post office, the Carnegie library.
Those things are far away now, those faces
vanished all those who walked those streets
in their daily rounds, who crossed those bridges.
In my imagination, it is as though a great wind
has swept through those rooms and buildings,
emptying them, taking the inhabitants away.
In time, the houses too will be carried off,
and the school and the hospital, all diminished
and scattered, until only the bridges remain.
Then even the largest and most enduring
of my fathers works will disappear, lifted
on invisible currents, like elements in a dream.
Yet there are nights when the wind stiffens,
and the dream returns. The streets of the town
come alive once more. Within those shadows
my father strides along an unfinished bridge,
hammer in hand, urging the workers on,
laboring to provide a passage for others."
Jared Carter
- Dec 5, 2010
- 98,289
- 34,800
- 2,290
I assume he will read it when my day is done. 
I remember when I could do no wrong,
My words heard as a valued song.
His eyes, they shone of cultured pearl,
His love waved akin to the tail of a squirrel.
Now he has grown and sees so clear,
Father can be wrong even if held dear.
His words show perception edgewise and tall,
From a boy who once was so very small.
My love is allowing him to make his stand,
Grow his wisdom from his very own hand.
To share my story and leave it at that,
For he is now the one who is "at bat".
Today I see glimmers of that childish view,
Tendered in thoughts of the adult so true.
Willingly knowing that he shall be so,
If only allowed to blossom and grow.
I remember when I could do no wrong,
My words heard as a valued song.
His eyes, they shone of cultured pearl,
His love waved akin to the tail of a squirrel.
Now he has grown and sees so clear,
Father can be wrong even if held dear.
His words show perception edgewise and tall,
From a boy who once was so very small.
My love is allowing him to make his stand,
Grow his wisdom from his very own hand.
To share my story and leave it at that,
For he is now the one who is "at bat".
Today I see glimmers of that childish view,
Tendered in thoughts of the adult so true.
Willingly knowing that he shall be so,
If only allowed to blossom and grow.
'Happiness'
"There's just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.
And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.
No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.
It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basket maker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine."
Jane Kenyon
"There's just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.
And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.
No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.
It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basket maker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine."
Jane Kenyon
- Dec 5, 2010
- 98,289
- 34,800
- 2,290
And this one helped me gain my wife
Without You, What Would I Be?
Landing on a precious thought,
Feelings of course can never be bought.
Gifted to those who tended the line,
With depth and clarity truly sublime.
Sharing through time, space and light,
Embraced by those with inner sight.
My gift is merely translating to word,
You are the treasure indeed that I heard.
Without that treasure to bring to light,
My words would be specious and tight.
Thanks to you for all that you bring,
In allowing my soul the freedom to sing.
Without You, What Would I Be?
Landing on a precious thought,
Feelings of course can never be bought.
Gifted to those who tended the line,
With depth and clarity truly sublime.
Sharing through time, space and light,
Embraced by those with inner sight.
My gift is merely translating to word,
You are the treasure indeed that I heard.
Without that treasure to bring to light,
My words would be specious and tight.
Thanks to you for all that you bring,
In allowing my soul the freedom to sing.
'Grandma Climbs'
"Grandma climbs a chair to yell at God for killing
her only husband whose only crime was forgetting
where he put things. Finally, God misplaced him. Everyone
in this house is a razor, a police radio, a bulging vein.
It's too late for any of us, Grandma says to the ceiling.
She believes we are chosen to be disgraced and perplexed.
She squints at anyone who treats her like a customer, including
the toilet mirror, and twists her mouth into a deadly scheme.
Late at night I run at the mirror until I disappear. The day is over
before it begins, Grandma says, jerking the shade down over
its once rosy eye. She keeps her husband's teeth in a matchbox,
in perfumed paraffin; his silk skullcap (with its orthodox stains)
in the icebox, behind Uncle's Jell-O aquarium of floating lowlifes.
I know what Mrs. Einhorn said Mrs. Edels told Mr. Kook about us:
God save us from having one shirt, one eye, one child. I know
in order to survive. Grandma throws her shawl of exuberant birds
over her bony shoulders and ladles up yet another chicken thigh
out of the steaming broth of the infinite night sky."
Philip Schultz
"Grandma climbs a chair to yell at God for killing
her only husband whose only crime was forgetting
where he put things. Finally, God misplaced him. Everyone
in this house is a razor, a police radio, a bulging vein.
It's too late for any of us, Grandma says to the ceiling.
She believes we are chosen to be disgraced and perplexed.
She squints at anyone who treats her like a customer, including
the toilet mirror, and twists her mouth into a deadly scheme.
Late at night I run at the mirror until I disappear. The day is over
before it begins, Grandma says, jerking the shade down over
its once rosy eye. She keeps her husband's teeth in a matchbox,
in perfumed paraffin; his silk skullcap (with its orthodox stains)
in the icebox, behind Uncle's Jell-O aquarium of floating lowlifes.
I know what Mrs. Einhorn said Mrs. Edels told Mr. Kook about us:
God save us from having one shirt, one eye, one child. I know
in order to survive. Grandma throws her shawl of exuberant birds
over her bony shoulders and ladles up yet another chicken thigh
out of the steaming broth of the infinite night sky."
Philip Schultz
I find it so hopeful that even in a place like this I find that people still read and write poetry.
Poetry is to prose as dreams are to waking.
Poetry is speaking in the language we invent
Prose is spoken in the language that we share
No, the above isn't a poem, merely an observation.
Did you guys know that in the 19th century poetry was more popular with the general public than novels?
That well known poets made better money than well know authors of prose?
Times change, eh?
Nowadays the only poets who seem to make any money, do so behind the guise of being singer songwriters.
I guess that's okay, though because just look at this thread.
Obviously things poetic still resonate in our souls.
Poetry is to prose as dreams are to waking.
Poetry is speaking in the language we invent
Prose is spoken in the language that we share
No, the above isn't a poem, merely an observation.
Did you guys know that in the 19th century poetry was more popular with the general public than novels?
That well known poets made better money than well know authors of prose?
Times change, eh?
Nowadays the only poets who seem to make any money, do so behind the guise of being singer songwriters.
I guess that's okay, though because just look at this thread.
Obviously things poetic still resonate in our souls.
This one always gets me
Do not go gentle into that good night
by Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Do not go gentle into that good night
by Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
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- Dec 5, 2010
- 98,289
- 34,800
- 2,290
Dylan always gets me.
Incarnate Devil
Incarnate devil in a talking snake,
The central plains of Asia in his garden,
In shaping-time the circle stung awake,
In shapes of sin forked out the bearded apple,
And G-d walked there who was a fiddling warden
And played down pardon from the heavens' hill.
When we were strangers to the guided seas,
A handmade moon half holy in a cloud,
The wisemen tell me that the garden gods
Twined good and evil on an eastern tree;
And when the moon rose windily it was
Black as the beast and paler than the cross.
We in our Eden knew the secret guardian
In sacred waters that no frost could harden,
And in the mighty mornings of the earth;
Hell in a horn of sulphur and the cloven myth,
All heaven in the midnight of the sun,
A serpent fiddled in the shaping-time.
Dylan Thomas
Incarnate Devil
Incarnate devil in a talking snake,
The central plains of Asia in his garden,
In shaping-time the circle stung awake,
In shapes of sin forked out the bearded apple,
And G-d walked there who was a fiddling warden
And played down pardon from the heavens' hill.
When we were strangers to the guided seas,
A handmade moon half holy in a cloud,
The wisemen tell me that the garden gods
Twined good and evil on an eastern tree;
And when the moon rose windily it was
Black as the beast and paler than the cross.
We in our Eden knew the secret guardian
In sacred waters that no frost could harden,
And in the mighty mornings of the earth;
Hell in a horn of sulphur and the cloven myth,
All heaven in the midnight of the sun,
A serpent fiddled in the shaping-time.
Dylan Thomas
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'Alone'
"Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don't believe I'm wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
There are some millionaires
With money they can't use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They've got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Now if you listen closely
I'll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
'Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone."
Maya Angelou
"Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don't believe I'm wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
There are some millionaires
With money they can't use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They've got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Now if you listen closely
I'll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
'Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone."
Maya Angelou
'What Do Women Want?'
"I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what's underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty's and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I'm the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I'll pull that garment
from its hanger like I'm choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I'll wear it like bones, like skin,
it'll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in."
Kim Addonizio
"I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what's underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty's and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I'm the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I'll pull that garment
from its hanger like I'm choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I'll wear it like bones, like skin,
it'll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in."
Kim Addonizio
'At the Office Holiday Party'
"I can now confirm that I am not just fatter
than everyone I work with, but I’m also fatter
than all their spouses. Even the heavily bearded
bear in accounting has a little otter-like boyfriend.
When my co-workers brightly introduce me
as “the funny one in the office,” their spouses
give them a look which translates to, Well, duh,
then they both wait for me to say something funny.
A gaggle of models comes shrieking into the bar
to further punctuate why I sometimes hate living
in this city. They glitter, a shiny gang of scissors.
I don’t know how to look like I’m not struggling.
Sometimes on the subway back to Queens,
I can tell who’s staying on past the Lexington stop
because I have bought their shoes before at Payless.
They are shoes that fool absolutely no one.
Everyone wore their special holiday party outfits.
It wasn’t until I arrived at the bar that I realized
my special holiday party outfit was exactly the same
as the outfits worn by the restaurant’s busboys.
While I’m standing in line for the bathroom,
another patron asks if I’m there to clean it."
Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz
"I can now confirm that I am not just fatter
than everyone I work with, but I’m also fatter
than all their spouses. Even the heavily bearded
bear in accounting has a little otter-like boyfriend.
When my co-workers brightly introduce me
as “the funny one in the office,” their spouses
give them a look which translates to, Well, duh,
then they both wait for me to say something funny.
A gaggle of models comes shrieking into the bar
to further punctuate why I sometimes hate living
in this city. They glitter, a shiny gang of scissors.
I don’t know how to look like I’m not struggling.
Sometimes on the subway back to Queens,
I can tell who’s staying on past the Lexington stop
because I have bought their shoes before at Payless.
They are shoes that fool absolutely no one.
Everyone wore their special holiday party outfits.
It wasn’t until I arrived at the bar that I realized
my special holiday party outfit was exactly the same
as the outfits worn by the restaurant’s busboys.
While I’m standing in line for the bathroom,
another patron asks if I’m there to clean it."
Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz
Last edited:
'Christmas Faith'
"Do you believe in Santa Claus?"
To his little sister cried
A bright-eyed boy; there was a pause
Ere the dainty girl replied,--
"Of course I do, for mamma said
Last Christmas he came through
The chimney while we were in bed,
And all she says is true."
"Pshaw! you are nothing but a girl,
That's why you're humbugged so;
They get your small brain in a whirl
With dolls and toys. I know
A thing or two, if you'll keep dark,
I'll tell you: it's such fun
To outwit grown folks--such a lark!
You won't tell, little one?"
"Tell what? I know he's true, because--"
The boy said, "Stuff! Old Smith--
The preacher--calls your Santa Claus
'A dear, delightful myth.'"
"Maybe that's Santa's other name:
Mamma says he has two."
"He's just a humbug all the same,
You little goosy you.
It means-- Now, Jennie, don't you tell;
I got the whopping book
That teaches grown folks how to spell:
Go get it; you may look
For myth--and it means just the same
As nothing. It's all chaff
About the stockings: Santa's name
Is mamma. We can laugh
At grown folks now. What mortal eye
Has seen him wink and nod?"
"No,--and we can't see through the sky,
Yet all believe in God!"
"That's different, but old Santa's feet
Fit square in mamma's shoes;
His voice, like hers, is low and sweet.
Trust in him if you choose;
You are a girl--such nonsense tells
So differently on boys.
Who hears Kristkinkle's silver bells
Or sees his sleigh of toys?"
Then proudly rose the little maid,
And--pointing far away
To the blue heaven above them--
Said, "Christ came on Christmas day.
We trust in all his names, because
He loves us--he is true;
And, though you call old Santa Claus
A myth, I'll trust him, too."
Rosa Vertner Jeffrey
"Do you believe in Santa Claus?"
To his little sister cried
A bright-eyed boy; there was a pause
Ere the dainty girl replied,--
"Of course I do, for mamma said
Last Christmas he came through
The chimney while we were in bed,
And all she says is true."
"Pshaw! you are nothing but a girl,
That's why you're humbugged so;
They get your small brain in a whirl
With dolls and toys. I know
A thing or two, if you'll keep dark,
I'll tell you: it's such fun
To outwit grown folks--such a lark!
You won't tell, little one?"
"Tell what? I know he's true, because--"
The boy said, "Stuff! Old Smith--
The preacher--calls your Santa Claus
'A dear, delightful myth.'"
"Maybe that's Santa's other name:
Mamma says he has two."
"He's just a humbug all the same,
You little goosy you.
It means-- Now, Jennie, don't you tell;
I got the whopping book
That teaches grown folks how to spell:
Go get it; you may look
For myth--and it means just the same
As nothing. It's all chaff
About the stockings: Santa's name
Is mamma. We can laugh
At grown folks now. What mortal eye
Has seen him wink and nod?"
"No,--and we can't see through the sky,
Yet all believe in God!"
"That's different, but old Santa's feet
Fit square in mamma's shoes;
His voice, like hers, is low and sweet.
Trust in him if you choose;
You are a girl--such nonsense tells
So differently on boys.
Who hears Kristkinkle's silver bells
Or sees his sleigh of toys?"
Then proudly rose the little maid,
And--pointing far away
To the blue heaven above them--
Said, "Christ came on Christmas day.
We trust in all his names, because
He loves us--he is true;
And, though you call old Santa Claus
A myth, I'll trust him, too."
Rosa Vertner Jeffrey
We can discuss what poetry is .... this is powerful stuff.
American character in the words of four Americans.
Anna Deavere Smith: Four American characters | Video on TED.com
American character in the words of four Americans.
Anna Deavere Smith: Four American characters | Video on TED.com
Dylan always gets me.
Incarnate Devil
Incarnate devil in a talking snake,
The central plains of Asia in his garden,
In shaping-time the circle stung awake,
In shapes of sin forked out the bearded apple,
And G-d walked there who was a fiddling warden
And played down pardon from the heavens' hill.
When we were strangers to the guided seas,
A handmade moon half holy in a cloud,
The wisemen tell me that the garden gods
Twined good and evil on an eastern tree;
And when the moon rose windily it was
Black as the beast and paler than the cross.
We in our Eden knew the secret guardian
In sacred waters that no frost could harden,
And in the mighty mornings of the earth;
Hell in a horn of sulphur and the cloven myth,
All heaven in the midnight of the sun,
A serpent fiddled in the shaping-time.
Dylan Thomas
...I've been Ayn Randed and nearly branded
A communist
cause I'm left handed
And that's the hand I use, well...
Never mind.
Man..
I knew a man whose brain
was small
Couldn't think a nothin'
at all
He wasn't like
you and me
He didn't dig
poetry
Man...
he was so unhep
When you said Dylan
He thought
you was talking bout
Dylan Thomas
(whoever he was!)
The man
Ain't
Got
No
Culture
Paul Simon
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hipeter924
Not a zombie yet
A few of mine I wrote recently, noting I am not in a relationship or anything like that.
What is love?
That touch on my cheek from your smooth lips,
A smile on your face,
That opens my heart,
To a starry night,
With us side to side,
Together in our thoughts,
The cinnamon on my cappuccino,
You are to me,
Always there to wake me up,
You are love,
If you want to be.
Dark,
My eyes pierced by sorrow,
A cascade of tears,
A beacon to the pain in my heart,
Like a river it flows,
Driven by the gravity of failed dreams,
Betrayal,
A simple spell,
To melt my mind,
And drive my heart,
To consume me,
To make me say,
Where is the light?
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American Horse
AKA "Mustang"
Friendship
And a youth said, "Speak to us of Friendship." . . .
Thanking you for this wasn't an option - so, thanks! Profound to say the least
'Christmas Morning'
"My children strip the skin from their gifts,
pull the gaudy insides into the light,
and play with them.
I sit sullen, swallow a pill or two,
and watch the pine tree,
covered with wire and glass,
die slowly.
"There is a history to all of this,"
I tell the dying tree,
the flayed gifts.
"All around us are the bones
of one god
or another."
My children ignore me;
my husband says, "Cass."
So I tell them we need new holidays
for the hot weather coming soon.
We can pray for the rebirth of the snowflake,
we can pretend they hang in the nightsky
waiting, always waiting, and occasionally crying.
We can sit in our loincloths
around the cool florescent lampfire
and listen to the elders tell stories
about ice cubes.
We can pray to the fridge.
My husband has had enough.
He approaches, takes my hand,
leads me away. I wish my dead friend
who is everywhere
a happy birthday."
Jody Azzouni
"My children strip the skin from their gifts,
pull the gaudy insides into the light,
and play with them.
I sit sullen, swallow a pill or two,
and watch the pine tree,
covered with wire and glass,
die slowly.
"There is a history to all of this,"
I tell the dying tree,
the flayed gifts.
"All around us are the bones
of one god
or another."
My children ignore me;
my husband says, "Cass."
So I tell them we need new holidays
for the hot weather coming soon.
We can pray for the rebirth of the snowflake,
we can pretend they hang in the nightsky
waiting, always waiting, and occasionally crying.
We can sit in our loincloths
around the cool florescent lampfire
and listen to the elders tell stories
about ice cubes.
We can pray to the fridge.
My husband has had enough.
He approaches, takes my hand,
leads me away. I wish my dead friend
who is everywhere
a happy birthday."
Jody Azzouni
'The Magic of Christmas'
"Snow is gently falling
The stars are shining bright
People come to worship
On this holiest of night
The voices of the carolers
Of love and praise are singing
While pealing in the distance
Are the sounds of church bells ringing
An air of joy and happiness
Is everywhere in town
As people greet each other
With good wishes all around
What a glorious celebration
On this wintry Christmas Eve
Where so much warmth and caring
Is a wonder to perceive
May the magic of this Christmas
Extend throughout the year
Let's keep on reaching out
And showing that we care
May the blessings of this season
Fill our hearts with joy
Always sharing, always giving
So that others may enjoy."
Virginia Carlson
"Snow is gently falling
The stars are shining bright
People come to worship
On this holiest of night
The voices of the carolers
Of love and praise are singing
While pealing in the distance
Are the sounds of church bells ringing
An air of joy and happiness
Is everywhere in town
As people greet each other
With good wishes all around
What a glorious celebration
On this wintry Christmas Eve
Where so much warmth and caring
Is a wonder to perceive
May the magic of this Christmas
Extend throughout the year
Let's keep on reaching out
And showing that we care
May the blessings of this season
Fill our hearts with joy
Always sharing, always giving
So that others may enjoy."
Virginia Carlson
"Nearing Xmas Eve! I don't know why--since I'm not a believer in the conventional sense--but every year around this time I end up standing here, pausing before this gray, hulking building with so many of its tall, stained glass windows darkened and lit only by floodlights from outside of it, but with twin spires still pointing towards heaven. Tonight I can see only a single light still shining--in a half-open casement window located on the second floor. "Hello, hello," I call out, "Anybody around up there?--anybody home tonight?" Silhouetted at the casement window, a head appears. "Sure, we're open all night tonight all right--but this isn't a church anymore," the head shouts back in a decidedly irritated voice. "Didn't you know?--our entire operation was finally taken over last year--we were shut down for a while and then re-opened again converted to a peanut-brittle factory," "But don't I recognize you, Sir," I call back--"aren't you the former Sexton?" "Yes," the head says, after we were converted the takeover people thought it would be wise for the sake of efficiency to retain some of the same personnel for a while, so together with some of my staff, I agreed to stay on for a bit." "Does that include God, too?" I hear myself calling back to the former Sexton. "Sure it does," the Sexton shouts back, "have a Merry Christmas!"--and his head disappears from the window. Then I see no silhouetted head much less face, and hear a far deeper and far more resonant voice: "My Son, my Son--we've been putting you on, my Son. But you know you should really come up here anyway--you know in your heart that for all He's ever meant to you, Christ might as well have been a part-time worker in a peanut-brittle factory!" Then suddenly the casement window slams shut. "Oh My God!" I hear myself cry out--"Could that have been God Himself up there? And if so, was He genuinely angry with me, personally?" On the way up the stairs to find out--trembling slightly I must confess--I meet an angel. He's coming down the stairs after apparently just knocking off from working on the night-shift somewhere upstairs. He's beaming radiantly; his wings are folded neatly behind him and he's licking his lips; his cheeks are covered up with peanut-butter and candy and look like two big chocolate chip cookies; and there's a big blob of marshmallow on the tip of his nose...."
Michael Benedikt
Michael Benedikt
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