Christmas Tree
Look to the tree, its coloured lights
blazing as if night's stars have fallen;
the branches cradle them
and reflect the faces that search
each pinnacled scape
for some glimpse of a more bearable side. Paradise
beneath, and among the fashioned Summered mosses, lay
the dreams of children, small hopes
pinned below a tree, fifty feet high. Boxes
gaily wrapped and ribboned, gifts
with sharpened edges and soft, beckon
to be touched, gently shaken. Soon,
all too soon, the blessed morning
arrives and delight surpasses
yesterday's wondering. Lights dim
against a backdrop of smiles and laughter.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
San Francisco's wrought iron and Alcatraz
Among the screams for release
are the wrought iron gates
painted pink and pretty
in the curves that carve
the line between the jailed
and the free.
They are oddities,
out of place pieces
that really belong on the houses
that line the streets
of San Francisco.
They are there too, in the city,
painted black
and I wonder at the quirk,
the tease,
and which will stand longest
in a city to be flattened
by earthquakes.
Among the screams for release
are the wrought iron gates
painted pink and pretty
in the curves that carve
the line between the jailed
and the free.
They are oddities,
out of place pieces
that really belong on the houses
that line the streets
of San Francisco.
They are there too, in the city,
painted black
and I wonder at the quirk,
the tease,
and which will stand longest
in a city to be flattened
by earthquakes.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
What will be seen...
There will be craned necks,
stiffened from searching
concrete walls, spires
that pierce the sky
and spoil the promise
that would have arrived
with the first blessing
of dawn. Birds,
perched on facades gilded
with the fake reckoning
of a city that hides
the unpleasant
under layers of dark and duty,
will sing a morning prayer,
a welcoming to a new land
bereft of the familiar.
There will be craned necks,
stiffened from searching
concrete walls, spires
that pierce the sky
and spoil the promise
that would have arrived
with the first blessing
of dawn. Birds,
perched on facades gilded
with the fake reckoning
of a city that hides
the unpleasant
under layers of dark and duty,
will sing a morning prayer,
a welcoming to a new land
bereft of the familiar.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Well below
It is not like you aren't up there,
wandering the sky beyond
those high clouds, lighting
the heavens with our dreams
of peace on earth, and goodwill
that we pray won't fly out the door
with those other hopes we've voiced
recently. I wonder
if you're always listening, if
you really want to hear
all the prayers that we send
constantly toward the stars
when the night reminds us
we should be on bent knees
before you. I kneel in the dark,
know you are above
and am aware I am well below.
It is not like you aren't up there,
wandering the sky beyond
those high clouds, lighting
the heavens with our dreams
of peace on earth, and goodwill
that we pray won't fly out the door
with those other hopes we've voiced
recently. I wonder
if you're always listening, if
you really want to hear
all the prayers that we send
constantly toward the stars
when the night reminds us
we should be on bent knees
before you. I kneel in the dark,
know you are above
and am aware I am well below.
