Sometimes Christmas looks more like a Jesus Heist
Than a celebration of Christ.
A boy is busy wrapping arms around his presents
When he should embracing His presence,
Consuming Christ in preparation for His coming,
His entering the world and summing
Up God’s total revelation
For our endless contemplation
Of the anniversary of Christ’s birth,
Of God made man on Earth
So that we might have light again,
But instead we check off lists and then
Never have a chance to anticipate
The savior we wish to celebrate.
Christmas arrives and we give each other gifts
Never giving ourselves lifts
In our own spirituality,
Stuck in secular commonality
That makes us wonder if a present pleases,
While we never gave a thing to Jesus.
After stuffed animals and baby dolls were shown,
As exhibitions of my son’s playing.
It’s likely my voice contained a confused tone
At the wonder of what I was saying.
My son was grilling dinner on the ottoman, it
Took me a moment but I thought a minute
And after rationalizing “yeses”, “Nos” and “Maybes”,
I came up with, “we don’t grill babies.
You can grill animals ‘till your heart’s content
But a baby who does not consent
Cannot be cast on the flames of a grill.
To be disposed of at your will.
In fact, a baby who does consent cannot be killed
Simply because the two of you willed
It to be so. Human life contains value.
So grill a tasty animal pal you’d
Like to eat instead
Of pretending the babies are dead.”
My wife gave me a smirkey smile from the other chair,
Loving me and the words I chose to share
With our three year-old who was grilling
Babies that no one should be killing.
I will only wear the mid-calf tube from this day on.
I will throw out every other sock I own
And I’ll forget them when their gone,
Pretend the mid-calf’s all I’ve known.
The marvelous mid-calf tube, sweet foot pocket,
Blissful blazes of bleached glory
Busting eyes out of the sockets
That look on to this bright story.
The story when we retire all our other socks.
Is this that day, or is this just the buzz we
Chatter about when we talk
So we can dream of that white fuzzy.
That future memory that’s not so distant
If we’re consistently persistent
In our standards for our socks.
When we go out on our walks,
Or go to the grocery store
We shouldn’t have any more
Mismatched temptations
Yielding pairations
Of socks never meant to go together.
Time constraints should not force a pair.
I dream of a day where
It doesn’t matter whether
I have my eyes open or closed
When I go in the sock drawer.
What are we pre-pairing for,
When we could have proposed
The solution long ago.
It’s time to rise up and take action
Join this mid-tube faction
And Throw out every other sock we know.
Don’t you hate when you’re writing and then
Your pen slips out of your hands?
What you need is a rubberized grip on your pen
So each finger understands
That they shouldn’t give in to the slippery friction
That often occurs when you’re writing
Your pen should step up to an elegant diction
And stop this ridiculous fighting
With fingers that keep on impressing their prints
As the whites of each digit turn whiter.
Your fingers are frustrated writing in stints.
You uncramp, then hold your pen tighter.
But stop the madness, there’s no longer a need,
There are new pens on the market to feed
Your hunger for a pen that doesn’t slip.
Go buy yourself one with a rubberized grip.
They never advertise
So you realize
That you can wait
To work it in your budget.
They’d rather you complicate
Your budget and fudge it.
But while your mentally defending
The purchase in your mind,
That wasn’t supposed to be
More than you typically
Would end up spending
On something of this kind.
They advertise that TV
Or whatever deal you see,
That’s now at a discount
And it’s only “X” amount.
And at that price, “you deserve it,”
So you might as well
Buy it and preserve it
For show and tell.
I look at the coffeepot and know he’s
Purposefully dripping down slowly
But I’m too out of energy to get up
Walk over and steal a cup
From the drips, delightfully hot
Descending into the pot.
I look at him, imagining the worst
What if the coffee pot burst
And I had no caffeine inside of me.
In vein, he would have died for me.
I’d see my friend’s life come to pass
In broken coffee-shards of glass.
I grab a mug down from the shelf
and make a promise to myself
To avoid this tragedy
And grab the pot more carefully
Than I did inside my mind.
Then pour my cup so I’ll unwind.
I’m thankful that I have a lover above me,
Three persons that love me,
Take care of me, and provide
All the things I’ve tried
To do on my own
When I haven’t known
Or realized He’s tried
To ease my pain and provide
Everything and love me
While walking with me and above me.
BonjourPoetry 