The man of God slid through my door and up the stairs,
sliding out of his shoes to settle on the sofa,
eager to sup and to share a little cheer, a little truth,
laced with honesty and vulnerability.

He reminded me of the season and the reason we gather,
with song, with prayer, and why we rise refreshed,
ready for the Advent, for the King’s coming kingdom.

The man of God left something of Christmas in his wake
and I rose to lift seasoned cheer from my cupboard,
better ready to greet this Advent
with a strengthened smile.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                Advent – a Gift of Becoming

                   “The old order changeth, yielding place to new”

              -“The Coming of Arthur” and “The Passing of Arthur”
                                              in Idylls of the King

There is much to be said for Ordinary Time
Its very ordinariness is kind to us
The daily hours that end with the Vespers chime
Free of formation and pageantry

But Advent comes as part of the dance
Of seasons wheeling through the universe
And we must shift our thoughts back into time
In anticipation of the Nativity

In solitary splendor a wonderful Star
Gives us light for our pilgrimage renewed

Joyous angels an entire night spent,
singing with flutes they ceased to relent.
Shepherds lowly pitch their dusty tent.
A story indeed reminiscent
of ageless advents when we all went
to sing in churches in wintry Kent.
In fright we gazed at Santa's beard length,
in a speed sleigh drawn by the Elks' strength.
We sought more fun for an extra cent.
But after pleasure we did repent,
speaking solemn words of a good gent:
'Oh, what a pleasant time in advent,
to usher in the infant God sent.'

The Eve watching Flash Gordon together
through gaudy chocolate wrappers
that made no difference to the crackling lunacy

The Eve as a coiled-spring eighteen year old
tumbling hoarse from the pub, through shining cold,
to the timed warmth of home and snuck pastry

The Eve lost to tears as a young man
penniless, heartbroke, falling,
safety-net caught, in hindsight

Tomorrow there will be another trail left,
from pillowcase to clues written in wit and love
that lead to presents I still hold tight

Mustard coloured turtle necks
and haircuts that owe a lot
to the nearest mixing bowl,
the fuzz and fade of decades
in the album, closed and out of mind,
can’t dim the smiles
or hide those who are there
amongst the wrapping paper drifts

It’s about now that my brother,
like some atomic clock for childhood illness,
gets the annual razor blade throat of tonsillitis.
As much as it’s a pain for him,
has he no consideration for me?
Who’ll be better than me
at playing with my toys now?
Dad?
Pfffft.

There have been other years
when the gross ache of being apart
was caused by the spiral growth of life,
but it was ours,
easily fixed by a Boxing Day trip
or a warm January shindig.
This year’s exponential spiral
stifles all but the cold binary of a zoom call
and fans smouldered ire at the avoidable

At 6 A.M. the day started with an obscure
Eastern Bloc animation of sad animals
finding the spirit of the season through solidarity,
then by running fingers down the listed joys
of the Radio Times
I found it perfectly possible to navigate a day
from a hole in the sofa, subsisting on nuts,
as familiar celebrities made Christmas **** of themselves

Head resting on the cold glass,
the bus streams a show
of tired towns and spent countryside,
my oh-so-worldly heart
beats through paper thin sophistication
anticipating mum and dad
with all the missing love
that for a forgotten moment
makes the *****, vaulted ceiling
of the station resound

Morning comes with a narcotic buzz
as I eschew my uniform
for a He-Man T-Shirt and joggers.
A fraught quarter hour is spent
selecting which toy to take in
(the collective judgment can be harsh)
then off into the riotous grin
of the last day of term.