I Would Be Proud of You, Could I Attend

I Would Be Proud of You, Could I Attend

I would be proud of you, could I attend,
Would I now know the things I'll never know,
Could I have watched you come to comprehend
The wonder of the world in which you grow.
Do not think I did not think of you,
Imagining the beauty of this day,
For I was at your graduation, too,
Though long ago, and in a different way.
Life can be full, no matter short or long,
As long as love can fill it with its grace.
And I have felt such pride, and love so strong,
That you will live your life in my embrace.
So of the pride today I claim my share:
Though I am not, I know that I am there.
I Would Not Be the Sun to End Your Night
I would not be the sun to end your night,
Nor would I be the wall to turn your tears.
But I will watch with you until it's light.
Because there are no words to set things right
Nor hopes that one immersed in mourning hears,
I would not be the sun to end your night,
Offering a wisdom far too bright
To soothe your pain or put to rest your fears.
But I will watch with you until it's light.
There must be time to grieve that sorrow might
Be equal to the love of days and years.
I would not be the sun to end your night.
For grief, before it breaks, must reach its height,
And tides must turn before one homeward steers.
But I will watch with you until it's light.
There are agonies no friendship can requite,
A bitterness unstained till dawn appears.
I would not be the sun to end your night.
But I will watch with you until it's light.
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I Miss Your Laughter, Fun, and Gentleness

I Miss Your Laughter, Fun, and Gentleness
I miss your laughter, fun, and gentleness.
I miss the things I used to do for you.
I miss the time, now filled with emptiness,
When each day was a stage for something new.
I miss your love, though mine for you remains,
A passion with no outlet to the sea,
A teardrop in a desert, that contains
What's left of my maternal ecstasy.
I miss your presence, like a silent chord
That anchored even solitude in grace.
I miss, for my love's labor, the reward
Of seeing some small pleasure in your face.
All these I miss, and yet they are all here
Within my heart, far more than I can bear.
I Need to Say Goodbye Although You're with Me
I need to say goodbye although you're with me.
I stand beside your grave, yet you are here.
I miss you terribly and hope you miss me,
But when I turn to you, you're always near.
I talk to you as though you lived within me,
Not changed but simply moved in from outside.
I know each day you must a little leave me,
But here, as always, you must be my guide.
You were and are and will be, just as ever,
In many minds and hearts, not only mine.
No physical event can such love sever;
Death is a dimension, not a line.
And so goodbye does not mean you are gone:
So long as I still love you, you live on.
I Want You to Be Happy When I'm Gone
I want you to be happy when I'm gone.
When you mourn me, make your mourning bright,
Adjusting what you long for to the light.
Nor need you love the less what has passed on.
The art of memory is celebration,
Yearning that turns sorrow into song,
Opening a heart forever young
Upon the unmade bed of its creation.
Then celebrate my life, and also death,
On which I, like a mendicant, depend,
Begging that my suffering might end
Even as I fight for every breath.
Hold onto me with unresentful tears,
A testament to what we've learned of love,
Pleased again to move as your heart moves,
Partaking with no loss in passion of
Years as rich and full as were our years.
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I Cannot Think You're Not Alive Somewhere

I Cannot Think You're Not Alive Somewhere
I cannot think you're not alive somewhere.
I think of you just as I did before.
No sudden gust of wind has closed the door
Or made your presence vanish in thin air.
I write you this because I know you're there;
That even after death there must be more.
So does faith one's inner sun restore
After bitter darkness few can bear.
My mind and heart have not yet lost a friend
Even though my senses are bereft,
For you remain the witness of my soul.
No mere accident our love can end
So long as I have will and memory left,
And you lie silent on some unknown shoal.
I Didn't Get a Chance to Say Goodbye
I didn't get a chance to say goodbye
To you, to tell you that I loved you, to say
What now must be one long, unbroken cry
Of pain, now that at last you've gone away.
I cannot tell you what a joy it was
To be the one to tend you in your need.
The burden was a gift, for giving does
Not burden one who loves, though loving bleed.
I wish I could have been with you when you,
Perhaps aware, perhaps not, turned towards death
Alone, with no one there to wonder to,
To share your fear, your hand, your one last breath.
I wish, I wish, I wish . . . but it is done,
And now I must surrender what is gone.
I Have One Living Son
I have one living son, Justin,
And two daughters: Letisha and Anastasia.
And three dead sons, my first sons,
Who died because they were too small.
I love them as much as I do the others.
They lived their entire lives within me,
All but a few short, sickly days.
And now I mourn them as I do my other loved ones passed.
Do not think that time together
Has anything to do with grief.
Flesh of my flesh, they are my children.
I think of them often, as I do my parents,
As I would any souls I have loved.
The dead whom we love are like trees on a riverbank:
The river flows by, the trees remain.
Three lovely trees, as tall and thick as any of the others.
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How Lucky to Have Had So Good a Father

How Lucky to Have Had So Good a Father
How lucky to have had so good a father!
On us his warm, unstinting sun long shone.
We were, of his hardworking life, the center,
Loved for the pure joy of love alone.
Uncanny are the requisites of pleasure,
Coming as they do within the will.
Knowing well where lay his greatest treasure,
Years on years of love he labored still.
How Might a Spirit Settle in the Wind
How might a spirit settle in the wind?
After death, how might a soul find peace?
Love lasts long after lips and laughter cease,
Leaving only memories behind.
Out of longings, one might linen spin,
Weaving well the welkin edged with fleece.
Each spirit must from wandering seek release,
Else ever through the weary midnights wend,
Not resting till love's angels dark descend.

I Am the Mirror of Our Love

I am the mirror of our love,
And you its brazen fire.
To me our love is merely joy;
To you it is your breath.
I am the marker that must move;
You, the fixed desire.
You are what I most enjoy;
I am life or death.
And now you must be put to sleep,
And I remain awake
With years of love ahead of me,
And many pets to go.
But I'm the one who can't help weep
While you, just for my sake,
Come rest your chin upon my knee
And beg to share my woe.
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Frosty Died Last December

Frosty Died Last December
Frosty died last December,
My closest friend for fifteen years.
We were born the same November;
Now I can't put down my tears.
It's not fair that dogs should live
Just a short piece of our lives;
They give us the love we give
To parents, children, husbands, wives.
More loyal than a human love,
More passionate and all-consuming:
No spat would Frosty's love remove,
So fixed on me, so unassuming.
My grief is real, my pain is strong,
Though not all would be so moved;
But I can't think how I'll go on
Without this creature I so loved.

Her Life Was Not as Glorious as Some

Her life was not as glorious as some,
Devoted to her children and their children,
Taken up by quiet tedium:
What's left when dreams are scattered to the wind.
She loved too well, perhaps, and fought too hard
To make a marriage work that wasn't right.
She was, of all bright loveliness, a shard
Struck off to bring our lives the gift of light.
There are those whose lives are shaped by love;
Whose pleasures, rich and full, are found in giving;
Who make our wild hearts bloom and passions move
Into measured fields made lush by living.
Without her all the gold's gone from the day;
She will be missed far more than we can say.
Here's a Little Ditty
Here's a little ditty for
A sailor lost at sea,
An Irishman, most sorely missed
By friends and family.
He'd reached the prime of life when he
Encountered Davy Jones,
And now all that is left of him
Are tears and scattered bones.
He lives in those he left behind,
His loved ones and his mates,
And as they die, he'll die again,
Conjoined with many fates;
Until at last his being, with
A brief, unuttered sigh,
Will yield its presence peacefully,
And bid the world goodbye.
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Every Time I See My Pansies

Every Time I See My Pansies
Every time I see my pansies
Vivid in the golden sun,
You are with me in my garden,
And I am once again a child.
Vivid in the golden sun,
Their beauty brings me close to tears,
And I am once again a child
Learning to assume your grace.
Their beauty brings me close to tears
As I join hands with you in love,
Learning to assume your grace,
Dancing to your inner music.
As I join hands with you in love,
You are with me in my garden,
Dancing to your inner music
Every time I see my pansies.
Fathers Need Not Fathers Be
Fathers need not fathers be.
All one needs to do is choose
To love for life, and that embrace,
Held long and hard, bestows the grace
Each craves. For all in time must lose,
Restored alone by memory.
So now it is with you and me.
Father's Day Without You Is like Music
Father's Day without you is like music
Muted by a distance undisturbed.
It is so faint I cannot tell the feeling,
Though I myself am gripped with pensive sorrow.
I listen all the more for what I cannot
Hear, and you are somewhere close beside me.
"It's joy!" you say, and then I nod, unbending,
Listening still while weeping like fine rain.
Yes, it's joy, and you again are with me.
I turn to you, and I am in your arms.
The music is a rhapsody around me,
And I am safe again and free to cry.
It is so beautiful, I cannot stand it,
I am a torrent, shaking in my gladness,
And you recede, as distant as the music,
Smiling dimly far across the plain.
"Please, please!" I say, yet know that what I'm asking
No longer is. Your day will come and go,
And I will crave and fear its restless turning
Because my happiness must be my pain.
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Early On, There's a Point to Regret

Early On, There's a Point to Regret
Early on, there's a point to regret:
In creative pain, one can make changes.
Grief is a wild, foolish, helpless rebellion,
Heart against stone, desire smashing against
The locked fact, the impenetrable event,
Yielding nothing but the wash back into life.
For one who grieves, there's no point to regret:
One lives through pain, it's not a time for changes,
Undoing in one's heart what one must accept in life,
Repositioning the precise stones one smashes and smashes against.
Ed Was a Black and White Paint Quarter Horse
Ed was a black and white paint quarter horse.
He died around the age of fifteen years.
We cannot share his inner world, of course:
Such loveliness lies far beyond our tears.
He came to us beaten and afraid,
But in about a year he chose to love,
Never questioning the choice he made,
Nor from that passion did he ever move.
It wasn't mere acceptance or compulsion
That made him such a gentle, loving friend.
Some innocence of which we have no notion
Gave him a depth we cannot comprehend.
He loved us with a dignity and grace
We cannot hope to answer or replace.

Every moment sings with fascination

Every moment sings with fascination
As silence sits behind the vivid veil.
There is no rock not rife with revelation,
Nor word that will not ultimately fail.
Likewise, we are masks upon the void,
Uncreated at our empty core,
Mirror of what cannot be destroyed,
The nothing that the thing is destined for.
The being of our being is delight;
The nothing of our nothing, pure perfection.
Just beyond our day is utter night;
Just within our heart, its blank reflection.
The gift of life brings joy well worth the pain;
The gift of death brings us home again.
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Death for One Ought Not Mean Death for Two

Death for One Ought Not Mean Death for Two
Death for one ought not mean death for two.
We cannot die of grief unless we will.
Love requires us to love life still,
Lest love be less than life and death are due.
We cannot choose but choose for others, too,
For what we choose does what we are distill,
And open fields with inner sweetness fill,
That those who pass might hope or faith renew.
So may your love for loved ones that remain
Bring you through this season of despair
To some unquiet, sad, but gentle spring.
Emerging from your chrysalis of pain,
May you find a new world blossomed there
With new songs bittersweet that pleasure bring.
Death Is like a Car
Death is like a car
That disappears around a curve,
Or like an ancient custom
That we've failed to preserve.
The car continues going
Even though we cannot see,
And the custom just remains
Itself, outside of memory.
Death is a relation
To a certain time and place;
To Eternity it's nothing
In a line of endless grace.
I've loved you all so much
That I've known Eternity,
Vast and never ending
Deep within the thing that's me.
Time is like a river
And love a clear, still lake
That holds the sky within it,
Crystalline and yet opaque.
And I have had that gift
In an abundance that is rare,
With you and with my husband
Who's both gone and everywhere.
I feel the awesome beauty
Of the end of earthly breath.
I've had a rich, full life
And now a peaceful, shining death.
Diabetes Tells Us We're Machines
Diabetes tells us we're machines,
Intended to exist but for a time.
All that brought us pleasure in our prime
Breaks down to prove the metal of our means.
Eventually, all of us must die,
Though, perhaps, not quite so bit-by-bit.
Each soul must see of life the whole of it,
So as to know of death the reason why.
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Can't You See? Don't You Care

Can't You See? Don't You Care
Can't you see? Don't you care
I want to die?
Don't you listen? Can't you hear
My silent cry?
Won't you turn? Can't you hold
Me to your heart?
Are you afraid of what might follow
Once you start?
Would you rather not believe
I'm in such pain
That all your sense and good advice
Must be in vain?
Would you rather tell yourself
I'll be OK,
And all this adolescent angst
Will go away?
Ah! Would I also swim across
This lake alone!
But if you cannot swim with me,
I know I'll drown.
Dan Phillips Lived a Golden Life
Dan Phillips lived a golden life. His years
Were rich as anyone's, though he died young.
No one lived more, though he did not live long.
His life was large enough to hold our tears.
He had a smile you'd see a mile away.
He took to life like a kid in a candy store.
He was the best of us, and something more,
But he ran out of luck and died one day.
What difference does it make when we are gone
How long we live, or when, like Dan, we fall,
As if life were a mountain we must climb?
Each moment is eternity, sublime
And perfect, like the memory of a song
We know so well one note contains it all.
Dear Son, I Cannot Speak
Dear son, I cannot speak, and yet
I have so much to say to you,
Too much for time and will to net.
Life goes with just this last adieu.
I have so much to say to you,
Far more than I can now convey.
Life goes with just this last adieu
To serve as what I want to say.
Far more than I can now convey,
I love you with a love that yearns
To serve as what I want to say,
Ablaze with joy that bleeds and burns.
I love you with a love that yearns
Too much for time and will to net.
Ablaze with joy that bleeds and burns,
Dear son, I cannot speak, and yet . . .
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Birthdays Do Not End with Death

Birthdays Do Not End with Death
Birthdays do not end with death,
But last as long as love,
A maelstrom of memories
That grace and honor move.
And so we celebrate your day
By visiting your grave,
A place that you have left long since,
But is all that we have.
Dear spirit, come and join us here,
Your loved ones by your stone!
Come sweep across the barrier
To claim us as your own!
Happy birthday, dearest one!
Oh, happy, happy day!
Not even the most bitter night
Can take this joy away!
Bobbie Jo Can't Be with Us
Bobbie Jo can't be with us
On this, her special day,
Because, although her heart is here,
Bobbie could not stay.
If love can reach across the void,
Each of us will know
Just when its grace shines equally
On us and Bobbi Jo.
Buddy
Buddy's memory burns ever bright;
Underneath our sorrow, ever there.
Death, unlike the coming of the night,
Does nothing to the loveliness of light,
Yet dancing through the willows' tangled hair.
Children Who Die Are Not Really Gone
Children who die are not really gone,
But go to a place that is something like home,
Where they sleep the deep sleep, as quiet as stone,
Until we can join them when our lives are done.
Children who die are not really dead,
But just like good children tucked into bed,
Wait the long wait while we go ahead
Till our tales are all told and our tears are all shed.
Children who die feel no pleasure or pain
In the place where they wait till they see us again,
And all of us dance in a world washed with rain
Where the sun shines so brightly no sorrows remain.
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A Gift's Been Given in Your Loved One's Name

A Gift's Been Given in Your Loved One's Name
A gift's been given in your loved one's name
Through which some bit of good may come of sorrow.
Life is something all of us must borrow,
Returning it, in time, to whence it came.
Pleased be assured that it will be well used,
As every gift that sings of love and light
Will render things less wrong, though never right;
For gifts of morning ought not be refused.
After My Father Gave Me His Blessing
After my father gave me his blessing
For the first time, saying, "God bless you"
As I left him to the darkness,
He held me there and kissed my hand.
For the first time saying, "God bless you"
In all the years that I had loved him,
He held me there and kissed my hand,
And the child shivered with delight.
In all the years that I had loved him,
We understood no need to speak.
The child shivered with delight;
The man in silence turned away.
We understood no need to speak
As I left him to the darkness.
The man in silence turned away
After my father gave me his blessing.
Audrey
Audrey died within my arms,
Undone in infancy.
Despite my helplessness, I felt
Resplendent dignity.
Each soul's a naked gift of grace,
Yet loved by us and Thee.
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Out of Who We Are Comes Where We Live

Out of Who We Are Comes Where We Live
Out of who we are comes where we live,
No less shaped by spirit than a shell
Yielding to the one imperative
On which all must depend to live life well.
Underneath the word is the desire,
Rembrandt to the image that we see,
New vesting in old verities its fire,
Evangelist for ambient ecstasy.
We choose from somewhere deeper than intention,
Having for such clarity no eyes,
Older than the moment of dimension
Manifest in fast-exploding skies,
Ember of which in that chamber lies.
To a Friend on His Election to the Jersey City Board of Education
Congratulations on your victory
Over those who'd labor in your stead.
Now that you have won, the road ahead
Gives pause: for what good soul-elect can be
Respondent to such need? Or happily
Attendant on such pain? It's often said
That power corrupts, but your audacious tread
Unheard might leave its footprints on the sea.
Little can one do, yet much is asked
As life responds to policy unfazed,
Taking, just perhaps, a hopeful turn.
Intending good, one is widely tasked,
Open to rebuke, and rarely praised,
Needing faith to change, as one must learn,
Scenes on which all helpless long have gazed.
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Congratulations on Your New Domain

Congratulations on Your New Domain
Congratulations on your new domain!
Old gives way to new, as new to old.
Nor shall you lack for shelter from the cold,
Given all must lose what they would gain.
Remember: What you need, you cannot have,
Although you have far more than what you need.
The bloom that lives for nothing but the seed,
Uncomforted must weep for what it craves.
Live, then, in this temporary shell
As though you were a denizen of beauty,
Taking all creation as your booty,
Inviting all to take from you as well.
Open up your insubstantial door,
Needing for your journey nothing more,
Sailing towards a home beyond your will.
Congratulations on Your Retirement
Congratulations on your retirement!
One makes a virtue of necessity.
Nor can one argue with reality,
Given its regard for sentiment.
Remember that one cannot judge one's fortune,
As what else might have been, one cannot know.
To choose what is remains the only option,
Unless one would be strangled by one's woe.
Let there be ironic celebration!
A moment of nostalgia and release,
The swift goodbye to long-sustained relation,
In which there is an element of peace.
Open doors await, to who knows where?
Now is ever, ever wholly there,
Singing with a grace that does not cease.
Creation Is the Proper Form of Love
Creation is the proper form of love,
Opening a universe to being.
Nor is love less than light a lamp for seeing
Glory, as the passing years will prove.
Remember well what service you must render
As laborers in vineyards not your own.
The life that you have made is but on loan,
Unencumbered by what gifts you tender.
Let it then be yours this little while,
And lavish it unstintingly with joy,
The grace no later demons can destroy,
Inheritance no fortune can defile.
Out of who you are comes what you do:
Now be with love and joy for more than two,
So that you may with life new life beguile.
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Clearly, There Could Be No Better News

Clearly, There Could Be No Better News
Clearly, there could be no better news
Of life and love, now there will be more.
Nor can we guess what grace we have in store,
Granted but imaginary views.
Rejoice in the creation of a soul,
A universe again emerged from darkness,
There being nothing, then a veiled vastness,
Unknowable, infinite, and whole.
Let there be again that bolt of light,
Again the wonder and the mystery,
The being that no cause could cause to be,
Incandescent day from utter night!
O children of desire, what have you done?
New-made a universe, another one,
Shard of One too luminous to see.
Congratulations on Your Doctorate
Congratulations on your doctorate!
One must not only dare, but persevere,
Not giving in to stress, fatigue, or fear,
Grinding out the hours obdurate.
Rewards, we hope, will be commensurate:
A passionate and interesting career;
The joy of making truth a bit more clear,
Unafraid to speak your mind on it.
Let your happiness for now take wing
As you rest on the mountaintop awhile,
The victor in your struggle with yourself.
In time, of course, the world will cease to sing
Out loud, though it will still your mind beguile.
Nor will, we trust, you lose your inner smile,
Song of love across each windswept gulf.
Congratulations on Your First Abode
Congratulations on your first abode!
Our love and hope and joy go out to you!
No home is home without a fitting ode,
Giving old-time grace to nestings new.
Regarding happiness: the choice is yours,
As life is neither time nor place, but soul.
There is no simple recipe for cause;
Ultimately, all is rendered whole.
Live, then, in love, and prosper as you will,
And make this first abode a proper home,
The calling that will call for all your skill
In being more than two free souls alone.
Out of what you will comes what you are,
Not momently, but out beyond the bar,
Singing like the wind that carves the stone.

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Clear Away the Cobwebs from Your Eyes

Clear Away the Cobwebs from Your Eyes
Clear away the cobwebs from your eyes --
Old ways of thinking, doing, wanting, dreaming!
Learn that present truths are future lies,
Undone by what is now well past redeeming.
Make of life a vast experiment
Blessed by passion, toil, terror, pain,
Unafraid to scuttle what you meant,
Sure only that no failure is in vain.
Do this, and you will have a chance to be
A sailor at the edge of what you see,
Yet yearning for what no one can attain.
Could I Have Seen the Consequence
Could I have seen the consequence
Of my bold exploration,
Looking back before I left
Upon my life's creation --
Millions genocidally
Butchered, starved, enslaved
Under laws and governments
Sustained by men depraved --
Despite all this, I would have gone,
And new lands found, and new worlds known,
Yet drawn by winds I craved.

Could We but Have the Clarity of Fate

Could we but have the clarity of fate
Or see the future as we do the past,
Little would we miss the mystery
Unknown to those who know what lies ahead.
Mountains make horizons definite,
Blocking off infinity, the last
Unbroken wave upon this solid sea,
Singing songs that we have long since heard.
Do, then, those few sailors celebrate,
Alone amidst the watery wilderness,
Yet seeking grandly what it is to be.
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Care to Come with Me to Outer Space

Care to Come with Me to Outer Space
Care to come with me to outer space?
On wings of will we fly across the void,
Landing in a wilderness of wonders.
Unchain yourselves from now! The present plunders
More than you imagine, dreams destroyed
By labyrinths no longing can retrace.
Ultimately, one pursues the grace
Sought by the heart, or finds oneself employed
Doing what must one's sweet substance squander.
As in my time, great seas, of sails devoid,
Yet beckon to the winds that guide the race.
Challenging the Veil Does Not Come Cheap
Challenging the veil does not come cheap.
One gets to know the provenance of hunger,
Living off the energy of wonder,
Unwilling to trade ecstasy for sleep.
More than life, one must want to be
Bestride the instant of the revelation,
Uniting image and imagination,
Seeing first what now the world might see.
Dread and longing dance across one's dreams,
Alive with hope for charismatic schemes.
Years wearied, wasted, wait impatiently.
Changes Find Their Agent in Obsession
Changes find their agent in obsession.
Old visions do not yield but to a sea.
Life is myth undone by mystery.
Underneath the truth lies the expression.
Meaning is the mask of history,
Best worn by those in undisturbed possession.
Ultimately, there is no progression.
Sing, then, of change, and savor what will be!
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When Death Must Come at Christmastime

When Death Must Come at Christmastime
When death must come at Christmastime,
There is a special grief,
A mourning that must mix with joy,
A pain that must be brief.
There is an anguish underneath
The labyrinth of light
That longs for simple emptiness
To contemplate the night.
But life must bubble on its way
And pleasure be put on,
For neither sorrow nor delight
Is ever left alone.
And, like the Virgin, we must smile
With enigmatic grace
As we receive the fragile gift
That nothing can replace.
Wacky Carols
Evil knight, wholly night,
Vests his dough in a young nerd bright.
Even so, the malevolent childe
Loses his shirt in a downturn mild,
Yielding sword and piece.
Now we will never have peace.
Angels often herd on high,
Nodding nimbly all the day.
God says little in reply,
Echoing what actors say:
Less is more-o-o-o-o-or-o-o-o-o-or-o-o-o-o-oria,
As one seeks the way-o.
There is no well, the angels did say,
In search of a hot tub in which they might lay,
Nor more than one shepherd to manage the sheep,
A lover of Oprah, demented but deep.
Praise be the shoppers, toyful and triumphant,
And the package tourists bound for Bethlehem.
Underneath their passions, they remain but angels,
Living to adore Him
As they serve other lords.
Give us what we're asking for, or we will you dismay.
In Heaven God may reign, but we want toys on Christmas Day!
Unless you do, some things you cherish well might go astray,
Like that Longines watch that long has been your joy, long your joy,
If you don't give in, you just might lose your joy!
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There Is No Better Bonus than Just You

There Is No Better Bonus than Just You
There is no bonus better than just you,
Of more immediate and lasting worth.
This season of glad tidings and great girth
Has resonance in all the good you do.
Even though the turning of the Earth
Brings forth hopes and resolutions new,
Of sovereigns singular and bosses few
Sing only of an annual rebirth,
Songs of gentle hearts and grateful mirth.
Though This May Be Our Christmas Last
Though this may be our Christmas last,
It is a time of cheer.
We dance within a theater vast,
Yet live from year to year.
All that we have shared remains
Within when we are gone,
Just as a house, though long since dust,
Might well remain a home.
And so we lift this glass of joy
Once more on Christmas Eve,
For time ought not such times destroy,
Nor gifts untimely leave.
What Does Santa Bring for Daddies
What does Santa bring for daddies,
Too old to want a toy?
Wallets, watches, ties, and sweaters
Don't make for much joy.
What do daddies want for Christmas,
Really, in their hearts?
So perfect that they'd shriek like kids
Once the shredding starts?
Oh, Daddy! Is there anything
You want beneath the tree?
Other than, of course, to watch
Me open gifts for me?
But life must bubble on its way
And pleasure be put on,
For neither sorrow nor delight
Is ever left alone.
And, like the Virgin, we must smile
With enigmatic grace
As we receive the fragile gift
That nothing can replace.
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Nothing Is, but What Is Evident

Nothing Is, but What Is Evident
Nothing is, but what is evident.
In truth, the truth appears but to the eye.
Could one but understand what might be meant,
Opening one's heart to pure intent,
Love the answer to one's what or why,
Angels would towards Bethlehem be bent:
So one might believe, though gingerly.
Perhaps It Was the Wind That Sang like Angels
Perhaps it was the wind that sang like angels
Anchored in a star-besotted sky,
Ululating round right-reasoned corners,
Lunging at three kings careening by,
Abroad with wonder, not quite knowing why.
Pets Are for Life, Not Just for Christmas
Pets are for life, not just for Christmas.
Each of us waits for the joy of a home.
Take one of us in and you'll never go kissless,
So long as you treat us as one of your own.
The Druids Thought the Mistletoe
The Druids thought the mistletoe
Would stop the meanest witches,
Cure the most severe disease,
Keep cradles safe from switches.
Enemies laid down their arms
Beneath its pungent spell.
For one whole day they could not fight,
Though hatred fire the will.
In later centuries it served
To force a willing kiss.
For those reluctant on their own
It was the door to bliss.
Today it is a symbol of
The mystic powers of Earth,
For when the sun's about to die
In love we find rebirth.
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Mysteries Are Often Most Mundane

Mysteries Are Often Most Mundane
Mysteries are often most mundane.
Every child is a child of God.
Revelation tends to come roughshod,
Rudely lying in, in Bethlehem.
Yet if God walked the Earth and then was slain,
Coming, like us all, encased in sod,
His holiness wrapped wholly in a clod,
Reason could not such a case sustain.
In faith alone can miracles be true,
Summoned to a certain time and place
To crack the mountain open to its well.
Mysteries hide Being from our view
As some go out to greet it face to face.
So it was one time in Israel.
Myths Are Hopes Refracted Through Our Pain
Myths are hopes refracted through our pain:
Each ray of justice bends into a bow
Resplendent, pure, symmetrical and sane,
Resolving into grace the world we know.
Yes, God walked among us out of love;
Christ suffered horribly that we might live;
His holy spirit watches, as a dove
Remains aloft, to witness and forgive.
In love the earth returns a special fire:
Sapphires linger in disheveled grass;
The snow burns eagerly; the blood runs higher;
Mountains melt into astonished brass.
All who love revere this sacred art,
Stunned and weeping at joy's battered heart.
No Christmas for My Children
No Christmas for my children,
No husband for my bed,
No money for tomorrow,
No place to lay my head,
No tree with mounds of presents,
No ornaments or lights,
No smiles on Christmas morning,
No feast on Christmas night,
No toys to ease the boredom
Of hours before closed doors,
No family celebrations,
No trips to crowded stores,
No fireplace, no Santa,
No games aglow with friends,
No fire but feeble fury
As Christmas slowly ends.
For me I have no pity,
My sorrow stronger proves,
Because for my sweet children
I've nothing but my love.
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More than Ever Now I Want You with Me

More than Ever Now I Want You with Me
More than ever now I want you with me.
Each day lays waste the day that came before.
Remembering the home that your heart gives me
Restores the peace that, lost, torments me more.
Yet we must be apart this day of joy,
Close in spirit, far apart in flesh,
Happy in a hope time can't destroy
Replenished by a sorrow ever fresh.
In us there is a glory from afar
So precious no brief moment of despair
That rises up can match that eastern star,
Miracle it is our gift to share.
As all our joy is cause for all our pain,
So when I'm home all will be joy again.
Morning Never Comes on Christmas Day
Morning never comes on Christmas Day!
Eons pass and still the sun won't rise!
Running late, the parents check closed eyes,
Retrieving gifts they long had hid away.
Years pass too quickly; loves and friendships stray.
Christmas comes and goes; the magic dies.
Happiness is hard and elsewhere lies.
Reality erodes one's sense of play.
Innocence remains a memory,
Sustaining hope and faith in later years,
The gift of what the child once believed.
Morning comes, of course, eventually,
As dreams give way to deep and unshed tears,
Still waiting for a glory long since grieved.
Mothers Mean Much More on Christmas Day
Mothers mean much more on Christmas day,
Even though they're loved the whole year round.
Rich memories lie knee-deep on the ground,
Recalling years when gifts unopened lay,
Years of Christmases near wild with play,
Christmases of dreams unwrapped and crowned,
Happiness with wings and joy unbound,
Reveling in myths time would betray.
In you there lies the spirit of pure giving,
Sweetness that finds pleasure in my smile,
The gift I can reopen every year.
More than my own, I find your heart forgiving,
A home where I am welcome all the while,
So I can rest assured, for you are near.
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Midnight Miracles Make Quiet Mornings

Midnight Miracles Make Quiet Mornings
Midnight miracles make quiet mornings.
Even God sleeps peaceful on the breast.
Restless nights result in dreamy dawnings,
Revelations ripe for sunlit rest.
Years of love lie drowsy, slug-a-bed.
Choices seem to snuggle, sleeping in.
Holiness is happiness instead,
Rich in all that gathers grace within.
In love of God or man, the Earth must turn.
Songs of angels come in troubled times.
The miracle of witness one must earn,
Moving to transfigure one's own crimes.
As faith and love require restful sleep,
So, too, must they their midnight vigils keep.
Mind Is Not the Medium for Joy
Mind is not the medium for joy.
Each word should be a bell within the heart,
Ringing like a wind-tossed, wave-tossed buoy,
Restless in the grip of polished art.
Years should be a cry of sculpted stone;
Christmases long past, an oak-voiced choir,
Harmonies that hollow out the bone,
Rich with longing, reckless with desire.
If meaning but had meaning, words would be
Salient as the resonance of brass,
Tearing chunks of glory from the sea,
Melting steel with love for things that pass.
All I would, I could to you convey
Should I find words that might such non-words say.
Miracles Have a Way of Making News
Miracles have a way of making news.
Even skeptics stare at parted seas.
Religious or not--Christians, Muslims, Jews--
Resurrection brings them to their knees!
Years ago, miracles were in vogue:
Christ and Moses wowed the willing crowds;
Holy icons healed both saint and rogue;
Rare wonders were ascribed to cups and shrouds.
In our time miracles are everyday,
So few can hope to grab us, or astound.
The mysteries that clutter up our way
May seem much more perplexing than profound.
And yet life is miraculous: to be
Surpasses any wonder we might see.
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Meaning Is a Measure of Repose

Meaning Is a Measure of Repose
Meaning is a measure of repose.
Each clarity extends our comfort zone.
Reason understands what reason knows,
Rendering its verdicts on its own.
Yet if God did descend one frosty night,
Child emergent from a mortal womb,
How can we comprehend so strange a sight,
Reason still incumbent in the room?
Ideas must answer more than we might ask,
Seizing not our wisdom but our fire.
The wonder must be equal to the task,
More consumed by passion than desire.
A truth must be a stone that breaks the heart,
Shattering alike our faith and art.
Merely Being Is a Miracle
Merely being is a miracle.
Each is both aware and unaware.
Running underneath one's thoughts, a canticle
Repeats one's silent gratitude as prayer.
Yet life does not allow for much devotion,
Claustrophobic in its constant need.
Hunger puts the mind in constant motion,
Reckoning the harvest from the seed.
In ritual and art one finds a moment
Still enough to peer into the deep,
To see beneath the will the wonderment,
Music of such joy that one must weep.
As angels sing, so sing that you might hear
Silence that no mortal long can bear.
Merry Christmas to My Love
Merry Christmas to my love!
Enjoy the holiday!
Revel where the angels move,
Rejoice in what they say!
Years burn life down to a stub;
Christmas comes and goes.
Happiness lies at the nub,
Refuse of one's woes.
Inside the husk there is the seed,
Shivering with glory;
The midnight cold, the dire need,
Mere setting for the story.
All the labor, loss, and pain
Sings of beauty born again.
Merry Christmas to the One I Love
Merry Christmas to the one I love,
Even on this day of love for all,
Remembering the love of one whose call
Redeemed all those whose hearts his love might move.
Yet only one love does my spirit prove,
Chosen in a passion like a squall,
Having in such ecstasy withal
Rejoiced in what we were created of.
In such love do we find our way outdoors,
So to be drawn to love of flesh and soul,
Traveling beyond our village green,
Moving towards the wash along our shores
As our love joins the greater love unseen,
Shining with dark passion on the whole.
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Maybe Underneath the Bed Is Sadness

Maybe Underneath the Bed Is Sadness
Maybe underneath the bed is sadness,
Even in the ecstasy of life,
Rejoicing in the gift of man and wife,
Reveling in existential gladness.
Yes, maybe at the heart of things a madness
Cuts through the flesh of pleasure like a knife,
Harrowing the soul with inner strife,
Replacing good with unrepentant badness.
If so, reason not with your despair;
So deep a wound requires deeper healing,
Too deep for any deft divining rod.
More than meaning, you are simply there,
A wonder steeped in incandescent feeling,
Still wrapped in swaddling clothes, the child of God.
Maybe We Need Another Miracle
Maybe we need another miracle.
Each epoch ought to have one of its own,
Reducing skeptics to a single groan,
Renewing faith with evidence empirical.
Yes, we need fresh testimony lyrical,
Changing hearts that else would change to stone,
Healing those who, hearing, would atone,
Replacing reason with a canticle.
If only God would visit us again,
Showing us for sure His patient love,
Taking on our sins a second time!
Maybe we could be quite certain then,
Ablaze with what our faith would outright prove,
So for ourselves to witness the sublime.
Meaning Has No Meaning Without Love
Meaning has no meaning without love,
Elevating sentience to desire.
Reason has no reason to approve
Revelation unsustained by fire.
Yearn, then, with the recklessness of burning,
Coming hungry to the Christmas table,
Holding tight the objects of your yearning,
Ready to find kings within the stable.
In you there is a love that brings to being
Such beauty as you cannot hope to see,
Too simple and too glorious for seeing,
Making it a sacrament to be.
As love gives wings their will and words their song,
So may it give you faith your whole life long.
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If All Were Now as It Was When

If All Were Now as It Was When
If all were now as it was when
Christ came to save us all,
And Christmas Day were Christmas Day,
Not some day we recall;
And in the East we saw a star
Exceptionally bright,
And wondered what was going on
That ordinary night;
If God were walking in our midst,
Saying what He said,
And we were not His followers,
But trod where He would tread;
And we were witness to His word
And looked Him in the eye,
And found His message interesting
But too bizarre to buy;
If we were in Jerusalem
And watched Him bear the cross,
And suffered with His suffering
But feared to share His loss;
And saw Him die in agony,
And wondered at it all,
And this were something we ourselves,
Not printed books, recall:
What would be the difference,
Had we known Him that way,
Between the faith we feared to feel
And what we fear today?
Maybe Merry Christmas Isn't Merry
Maybe Merry Christmas isn't merry.
Everything can't work out every year.
Reveling on holidays is very
Rough on those a little short of cheer.
Yet life goes on, and what was once consuming
Comes slowly to dissolve in humdrum days.
Hope returns, its rightful place resuming.
Rivers run their long and winding ways.
Instead of pain, one comes to revelation.
So does one not bury the remains,
Trading raw estrangement for relation,
Melding losses into harder gains.
As you are less than merry, with good reason,
So may you still find solace in the season.
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I'm Your Christmas Tree, All Brightly Lit

I'm your Christmas tree, all brightly lit,
Hung with angels, colored balls, and elves.
Underneath my boughs your presents sit,
If you've behaved yourselves.
Why must we wait till early Christmas morn
To open up our brand-new games and toys?
Why gifts for us the day that Christ was born
If we're good girls and boys?
Now listen to your Christmas tree: I'm wise
In all the ways of faith that you must know.
I'm here because of what I symbolize:
Green through ice and snow.
There is a world beyond what we can see
Where, by grace of God, we can receive
God's greatest gift: to live eternally,
If only we believe.
Eternal life is what God gave to you
In sending down His son to live on Earth.
This was His gift, so Santa brings gifts, too,
To celebrate Christ's birth.
The baby Jesus got gifts on this day
Because, like any child, He loved to play.
And so God wants to share this special joy
With every girl and boy.
Believe God loves you as your parents do,
And takes great joy in giving gifts to you.
Live well and love, and evergreen like me,
You'll live eternally.
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I Want You to Be Here with Me for Christmas

I Want You to Be Here with Me for Christmas
I want you to be here with me for Christmas,
Even if you leave your heart at home.
I know that lately my love makes you restless,
But it's too hard to spend this time alone.
My love for you is like the Christmas season:
Joyful, yet with knowledge of the end.
My need for you has neither hope nor reason:
If not a lover, please, just be a friend.
Please, just be a friend, and come to me
When all the world is bright with love and song.
You are my pillar and my fantasy,
My earth and yet the sky for which I long.
My need for you, of course, is mine, not yours,
Nor need you answer me but out of love.
This is the season when we open doors
To let in those whose need our hearts might move.
And after Christmas you may go your way
To leave me with my sadness and my dreams.
I have no right to bother you to stay,
Knowing how your heart, unaltered, leans.
I want you to be here with me for Christmas,
Even if you leave your heart at home.
What you decide, and why, is not my business,
But still for me it's hard to be alone.
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Make the Most of Every Christmas Morning

Make the Most of Every Christmas Morning
Make the most of every Christmas morning
Even when the weather's not so clear.
Riches come and go with little warning,
Rendered only to what souls are there.
Yet some would spend their Christmas at hard labor,
Choosing to ignore the gifts of grace,
Having much, though little that they savor,
Resigned to serve the lords of time and place.
In Christmas there is work and there is pleasure,
So interfused one cannot separate
The labor from the loving, common treasure
Made from giving, much beloved weight,
A burden and a blessing both, that one
Should relish till the precious day is done.

Make Not Much of What You're Missing

Make not much of what you're missing;
Each gets gifts as they come due.
Rest assured, regarding wishing:
Riches are reserved for you.
Years of want require wanting;
Christmas gives what one receives.
Happiness ought not seem daunting,
Renting space in what one grieves.
In your heart is all you need,
Sustained by giving it away.
Though you burn and break and bleed,
Mere suffering's no place to stay.
As you are is as you will,
Sure of winds that wish you well.
How Lovely 'Tis to Take This Time
How lovely 'tis to take this time
To greet our dearest friends,
To wish them health and happiness
Before the old year ends.
Darkness comes late afternoon
And winter lies ahead,
But friendship is a glowing fire
When all seems cold and dead.
Just as in some vacant barn,
Unnoticed in the night,
The whole of human history turns,
So we, too, make things right.
We must keep alive the flame
Though darkness grip the Earth;
For in the love we find in friends
Is our chance for rebirth.
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