Tag Archives: christmas eve

The Distant Angels

Christmas Eve, almost midnight, all is still.
Ally walks alone, only her breath, heartbeat,
and the crunch of her feet on soft snow.
Her favorite jacket, black parka, faux fur
lining around the hood, is her armor,
a prism of her faith, in the darkness.
Christmas Eve, the sky clear, wide open,
all the stars, the distant angels, come to
sing of hope, of love, of all that can be.
The church was left behind years ago,
the stained glass smashed to jagged edges,
the large doors and tiled roof long lost to rot.
Ally steps inside, the starlight the altar candles,
the moon gives her her acolyte robes, the wind,
quiet and still, whispers something, somewhere distant.
Something lingers still, and there is a stirring, a dream,
a terrifying hope in the lonely night. No angels come,
but a birth has come, His Birth, a world without end.
She here’s a cry, a growl outside, no mere animal hunger
or aggression or fear, something more, something come.
Ally pulls her parka and hood tighter, whispers a prayer.
She leaves The Church, walks into the night, led by stars
and moon, led by her eyes that sees it’s light in the cold.
She looks not at the demon, though she feels it’s biter gaze.
Christmas Morning, the day has changed over, morning has come,
though still dark and cold, still so little light, still so far to go to the sun.
Ally walks, whisper sings an old hymn, of all the love that is near.


Christmas Eve

The snow is coming in the bitter night,
and all the hushed candles and candy lights
and cheery hymns can’t chase The Devil out of my bones.

At the crucifixion, when Jesus was taken down,
Mary Magdalene washed the blood from Jesus’
swollen face, tenderly, maternally.

They did not let me wash my son’s face,
or anoint him in oil, or wrap him in a white
and pure burial shroud.

At the tomb, Mary Magdalene saw the stone
rolled back, and an angel, bright as the noonday sun,
telling her he is not here.

The room is empty of him, just a dull, low whine
and all the knick-knacks that don’t add up to a person,
and no son of light is telling me he’s come again.

Jesus touched Mary Magdalene’s face, wiped her tears
away and told her to tell the others, tell the world, He
was risen, he was coming again.

Sitting on his bed, too tired and worn out to weep,
there is nothing to touch, and he was not condemned
but by his own heart, his own mind, his own dreams.

He will not be back again.