The Festival of the Last Minute

Another year come and gone; another fifty-two poems on the (metaphorical) page. This next shall bring big changes for me - momentous, earth-shaking changes - but this poetry blog, read or unread, will steadily chug along. I can only hope that it brings you as much joy as it does me. God bless and merry Christmas.


The Festival of the Last Minute

With Christmas close upon us and the rush
of shopping, should it come as a surprise
that charity is buried in a crush
of acquisition. How we idolize

and gather, like a flock of silly sheep,
and straightaway surrender every scrap
of will and wit and intellect we keep
to toe the latest trend. This honeyed trap

entices both the plebeian and prince.
What better way to show your tender care
than with a gift? How better to convince
of love than by the offerings you bear?

But as for me, I'll spend the eve in rest
and seek to be an honest Christmas guest.

Worth

I am tired and this poem is quite nearly late. Thank goodness for Christmas break. May your last week of Advent be blessed.


Worth

I had a little speck of worth
within me from the start,
established in the fallow earth
that occupied my heart,

but now that heart has been rebuilt
into a fertile bed
and all the worth that used to wilt
is blooming overhead.

Soon

Can it be that time is passing so quickly? Sometimes, the seconds are an eternity, but other times, weeks hardly seem a sufficient measure. I can't say I mind the latter state, so long as things slow down come May.


Soon

When winter eases and the willing earth
awakens to the legacy of snow,
when shoots are swelling for a sudden birth
and all the land is fit to overflow

with liveliness, as just as sure as we
are set to sow our happiness, a song
is on our tongues, a wild reverie.
Though we are here, we shall not linger long,

when longing couples liberty to pain
and makes the hours agony to bear.
Our servitude is certain to be gain,
our mingling, a joyful affair.

For on the day we join soul to soul,
we make our native deficit a whole.

Sleep

How pleasant it is to burrow under the heavy weight of blankets, when the temperature and sun are sinking fast. The only grief of sleep is how quickly it passes, and the time for rising in the chill morning air is upon us as, day and night, we play the sorry Persephone.


Sleep

The night approaches, dim and deep and dark,
an inky chill that clambers at my toes.
That old December sky is bare and stark
and stippled with the stars. I do suppose

I'll wander off to bed, and to my dreams;
they warm me, and the burly blankets, too,
as other warmth unravels at the seams
and slips away. How pleasant to pursue

my bounding, old bellwether and his flock,
who number out the enterprise of sleep
as surely as a counterweighted clock.
Within my waking mind, the moments creep,

but, sure and sweet, a somnolence takes hold
and, sooner than I know, the night is old.