Tag Archives: christmas

The Beauty of a Passing Desire

Snowy night, 2am, Christmas Morning.
All night convenience store, The Fort.
Coming for some hot, black coffee,
Just to escape my choking room.

Sip gently from the cup, still burn my tongue.
Watch the wet snowflakes put on a mask,
Make this dingy neighborhood look clean.
The cold puts the lie to a world reborn.

There’s a young woman standing by the freezer
Where you get the bags of ice out front.
She is lingering here, smoking a cigarette,
Her eyes distant, harsh and so wide open.

I smile at her, and she gives a small one back.
She’s strong and tough, with short, pixie hair.
Amazon and dreamer, staring me down.
I look away, sip my coffee, with its futile warmth.

I walk back to my apartment, my knit hat
Becoming wet, my lungs sore in the cold,
Making in my mind a vision of the young woman, so I can write these words now.

The beauty of a passing desire.

Cold Rain, Christmas Morn

Sophie’s long, dark hair is tied up and hidden
in the hood of her thick, navy blue sweatshirt.
Her chipped, bitten nails show as she holds
a flute of red wine, watching the cold rain.
It is Christmas Morning.
The Fort, seems like a forgotten kingdom now,
empty and dark with these closed in streets.
We watch it from our balcony with our wine,
with the rinky dink white flashing lights on the rail.
Jesus is born. It can be new again.
Platonic friends, which makes it perfect here,
not saying a word, just looking out on our world.
Soon we’ll go see family, and feel we belong there.
So often strangers in this city, this whole bloody world.
You can be clean again. You can be whole again.

Dead of Night, Almost Christmas

Dead of night, almost Christmas,
when The Messiah was born.
Scripture said, the angels announced
to the shepherds: “Come and see!”
And here I am, out in the night,
with nowhere to go that’s safe,
drinking fast food iced tea,
in a parking light of an all night store.
The lurid lights, the phony cheer,
the talk of brotherhood that’s empty,
when the world’s burning and God
is invoked to put the weak upon the fire.
Tax collectors, prostitutes, lepers,
the sinful and fallen and left behind.
Those He touched, He healed, He sought out.
The ones like those here, are left to burn.
The say He was born in a stable, laid upon
the manger, a humble child, poor family.
On the run soon after, a stranger in the world.
A poor prophet, executed for his powerful words.
His children yell: “It’s Merry Christmas asshole!”
and lose their shit over coffee cups, petty ass shit.
So lost, so angry, and I almost turn away forever,
but I remember the love I feel, touching His face.
He came for me, for us broken, left behind.
Now, will He chase poison from powerful souls?

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.