Wake up, dear dreamer; the morning has come!
Weary student, the term is over; the holidays have begun!
Oh saint, the long Advent is over;  the season of feasting is here!
Fasting and waiting, purple drapings covered all the places
But look on this day, white and gold shine like the sun of a new day

Remember, oh Christian, that night in the town of David
When the Light of the World finally shone bright
When, for a brief and glorious moment, eternity flashed its beauty
Remember that night, dear parishioner, when hopelessness was banished
For the long-awaited Saviour had finally come!

This great season when we celebrate that God on High descended to Earth down low
That the Lord of Heaven became lowly man to make all things new
That He showed us a world which we only know from fairy stories
A world where rivers run with wine and trees bear fruit the color of gold
Remember the Lord that came to renew the life robbed from humanity

So celebrate, oh Christian, you who have been renewed
Remember your Holy Baptism in the Lord, you saint
Remember all that you have forgotten, and celebrate the Incarnation!
Tear away those drapings of darkness and the curtains of purple
The season of fasting has passed, and a feast is to be set upon our tables!
Celebrate these next twelve days and never relent!
Dress the world in gold and white, that she might remember He who has restored her

For behold, the Word has been made flesh!
Behold, He brings life to this dying world!
Behold, before our eyes, the Salvation prepared for the nations!
Behold the Incarnate Lord!

Even though Jehovah Witnesses don't celebrate Christmas, church is the best place to be on Christmas Day.
There is no better way to celebrate Christ than to be in church to worship and pray.
Being in church is the best way to honor Jesus and his father.
But many people never go to church, they don't even bother.
I'll be in church on Christmas Day, it's the best place for me to be.
It's the best way to honor Christ and I really hope that you agree.

church for the nonbeliever
sainthood for the irredeemable soul
i feel hands around my throat and breathe thanks to god
i feel fire in my belly and say his name like a chaser
my hands are raw with sins and holy water stings them like salt in an open wound
no longer the god-fearing seven year old in a white dress at his feet
i look to records for the religion i've lost
pray for sanity and forgiveness in the blank moments filled with music and nothing else
they have consumed me
i beg god for motivation and ambition so i can fulfill his image of me
but in his radio silence i wonder if he's finally done
if there is one sin too many,
one prayer too insincere
has he forgotten me as i have myself?
too many questions and not enough answers
so i get high and listen to songs about losing faith
and i sleep and wake up again
still wondering if
i have any faith at all, and
if i do then when my will deliverance come
in answered prayers and cups runneth-ing over
and ashes in a cross on my forehead
my mother says i'm no longer who i was
and i laugh and tell myself to bite my lip and swallow my tears
i know
a lost soul, a wandering and wondering little girl
that is who i am, who i was, and who i will die as
so i pour another shot and hope for the best in the end
god will come through
even if i don't know if i believe in him

In her smoke, a heavy burn
Leaving him thirsty and parched
She taught a heavy lesson to learn
That loving her and her alone,
Is a church bell ringing above an alter dark

"Church Bell" -JP

heard the church choir singing songs of praise
but your voice alone was enough to make me holy

some churches have bones,
and a graveyard for all the prayers
god didn't answer

The soles of my sandaled feet
maneuver lumps of brick as if by rote
and I am compelled to face the square.

Almost noon on Sunday,
I seek the impromptu mall
of Tarot readers and caricaturists
where palmists merchant to St. Peter,
each an homilist to the choir of steel drums
tinkling near the alley.
Alternate drummers motion bills and coins
into the walled cache of a tattered suitcase.

Tall arched doors spill into
the welcoming flicker and scent of melting wax
as an older woman enters,
the heft of her rosary bending her
near genuflection.

Familiar passages resonate;
memories lead to Sacraments.
Questions filter through me like confessions,
and I note what lingers of my faith.

Still.

I feel too guilty for Communion.

Bless me Father, for I have sinned.
Even as I turn to You,
my right toe numbs
and my ear begins to itch.
My ******* constrict
and my throat presses into the wet.
Inject me, Father, with Noah's syringe –
the one that jazzed him
to build that floating zoo –
that I may track my path before the Rise.
Or, let me don Your priestly robes,
and turn some wine to Corpuscles
divined to see beyond my own plank
or preach the Beatitudes to yawning zealots.

Is there a mirror on that altar?

As the cathedral entrance closes,
I am who I am
—and I am not worthy—
standing my shadow's length
from the shallow steps.

Azaleas blooming at my back,
I remember when religion grew within my mind
fed weekly by carvings on a chalice
in a chapel on Esplanade left to nature post Katrina.

Spanish moss greys the white beard of God
where the dome of the fresco fractures.

Phalangeal hues of sun
eclipse the floating dust
from breaks in stained glass stations.

Masses of blackberry and kudzu
drape a pregnant mass
over the sculpted marble of the cross.

The chiseled palms of Christ extend as
ropes of growth unravel from His Torso

like a figment of my reconciliation.

Vines fall to form a brambled crown
atop a broken stone
between the great doors
where the Bible swells open.

A version of this poem has been previously published in the anthology Louisiana Inklings: A Literary Sampler (29 October 2013).

*"Sanctuary" was featured as Poem of the Day and  added to the Poetry Club on Scriggler.com

I walked into our chapel
shoulders back,
head high,
dignified.

No Catholic shame
forced my eyes
to the mosaic aisle

Trodden Over
by my Sandaled feet,

It was a feast day,
praising God
with our laughter
and shared
beneficence.

We joined
in joyful prayer,
receiving each other's
sacrament
with the reverence
of saints

but just as I sang
the psalms the loudest
there came
an unholy silence,

Believing I was being
tempted,
I fell to my knees,
contemplated
your wonder

waiting for your return
to your
prodigal lover;

squandering our
sacred time,
not counting the blessings of
our moments of grace.

I hung upon
my silent cross,
weeping into my
wine-soaked rag

Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani  

Descending into
Despair,

Waiting for
an Easter
that I swore
had been prophesized,

Even upon your
high holy
return,

you seemed resurrected,
and yet I not saved.

I felt like Moses
on his day of death
beholding
the promised land
covenanted by
souls

and yet
remaining in
this desert
thirsty for
the wellspring
that seemed to be sitting
behind your eyes,
the water that would
quench
my forever thirst.

Despite the ache
in my dried mouth,
I'd find
the will
to stand upon my feet,
tired of relying on
a charitable heart's
sympathies
as my means of
living.

But I found
that I was
praying for
too much
from you

and I fell upon
my knees again,

wondering if
humility is meant
to leave you feeling
this broken.

And so begins the litany
of sacrifices

wondering

if you are my
love made flesh
why it is I who is

scourged,
stripped of dignity,
nailed to a cross
that I had brought here
myself

Mumbling words out
to a silent heart
that I know
hears me.

Thinking that surely
our death
will meet me soon.

But by
the clever grace of
the devil

I continue,
finding life
that should have
diminished
at two o' clock.

Is Hannukah
not
supposed to be
a celebration?

Because while burning
in this modest
Menorah lifestyle,

sacred
and
devout.

I find faith
in you

and have been shepherded
to no redemption,

but only the
salty pillars
of one who trusts
in gods
created by another God.

And upon this realization,
I rush to confession,
knowing my worship
of false idols
is not over.

As I remember
our love
as beautiful
and mighty,

I'm forced
also to remember
that
Lucifer, too,
fell when things were at
perfection.

Try as I might,
I must turn my face away,

with the hope
that something
greater

truly does await
for one
who loved paradise,
body and soul,

with the finality
of resurrection.