With joy and hope, we celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ.
We speak of His example, of His love and sacrifice.
Our voices raise in carols praising Him, each sacred strain
a witness that the Lord did come and sank beneath our pain
to take our sins upon Himself, a perfect gift of love,
from our own Elder Brother, He who waits for us above.
How do you like to go up in a swing?
Pump your legs or be pushed?
Take it slow or take wing?
I love you like the ocean’s roar.
In fact, I love you even more.
Yes, every stupifying snore.
I love the wind between your lips.
Your exhale doesn’t sigh; it rips.
(The breeze it blows could sink warships.)
image by Caralsil on Deviant ArtThe woman stood, endured, grew strong.
Propelled by faith, she trudged along
the snowy trail, the dusty plain,
the rocky passes, slick with rain.
Our history is glorious.
Why should we not stand proud?
And yet, today, so many feel
that pride is not allowed.
They came: the tired, the poor, the yearning masses,
the flood of people reaching for one moon––
sharing a dream that lived and died in snatches,
mercurial as air in a balloon––
Greet the one all creation adores,
crowned the goad-ess of weddings and wars.
She is immortallized
as a feast for men’s eyes,
but she’ll not let them get in her drawers!
Whenever I’m in search of feed,
a deviled egg is all I need.
This worries me, because I fear
it’s angeled eggs I should revere.