Family members crowd around
I try to dodge the questions
How is school
How is dance
How is the harp
I don't want to talk
I just grab some food
And run away
From the noise
The questions
The lack of space
Or I would
But my mom won't let me

Even the King of the World
The Lord of Lords
The one who we celebrate
This time of year
Came as a baby
In a stable
ALONE
In the middle of
Nowhere, Israel
(Okay, Bethlehem
But still)

Can't I just catch a break?

No?

Oh well.

At least there are cookies.

Standing in the kitchen,
I thought to myself,

Each year since I was young,
my mom would make these cookies...
truly amazing cookies,
for Christmas, every year,

but over the years,
they never tasted as good
as they once did.
Over the years, they got worse...

and I couldn’t help but think,
nothing is as good,
as when its made with love.

Now as a reminder each year,
I chew, chasing a taste that,
once filled the innocent mouth,
of someone who didn’t notice

that moms cookies never tasted the same,
since she cheated on my dad.

Plunge into coffee
Softening to perfection
Love me some cookies

I run into a forest with fudge and green frosting trees.
In there I find squirrels made of cheesecake grey sesame.
The acorns are made of candy hard root beer.
Twigs made of cinnamon to my feet adhere.

The ground has bunches of lime gummy grass.
I saw a rabbit of white chocolate run past.
The foot prints were of cocoa divine.
This forest is filled with deserts that seem mighty fine.

I come to a river filled blue raspberry jelly.
That will surely adhere to my belly.
What am I to do with all these treats?
Is it time to run or do I have time to stop and eat?

I see birds made of cookies and cream.
Is this a terrifying nightmare or a beautiful dream?
The snow falls powdered sugar flutters.
Whoops, stepped in droppings made of peanut butter.

Maybe from a chocolatey brown bear.
Just as tame as that white chocolate hare.
I guess I am getting out of here.
All the sugary stuff that will adhere.

Hopefully I do not attract those.
They are red hot fire ants near a cream filled rose.
Though I finally leave.
What just happened I could not believe.

I’ve heard that some see the world in poetry,
And that some see the world in prose.
Some stop to cry out “Oh, woe is me!”
Some just think “Welp, that’s just the way life goes.”

Some things just don’t go the way you plan,
Some things just fall apart or they break,
Baked goods aren’t always perfect out of  the pan.
Think your life is bad? Someone else’s may take the cake.

Sometimes life really is awful, it’s okay to complain,
Sometimes the more one runs, the more one tumbles,
We often get bruised and feel all kinds of pain,
But alas, sometimes the ball just fumbles,
And we watch the way the cookie crumbles.

The cookie always crumbles in uneven fragments,
So naturally someone always get a bigger piece,
But I’ve found that life has a way of finding its balance,
And when I am alone at night, it brings me peace.

In Grandma’s kitchen,
There’s the old raggety rocker,
The one that always tips back too far
And my heart skips a beat as I
Secretly enjoy the thrill.
In Grandma’s kitchen,
There’s the mounds of old recipes on
The counter, yellowing with age, being
Ripped from ancient editions of
House and Home magazines.
In Grandma’s kitchen,
There’s the constant pleasant aroma of
Cookies, chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin
And snickerdoodle, the presence of cookie
Jars that are quickly ransacked by us.
In Grandma’s kitchen,
There is the collection of teapots on
The shelf, the daily weather forecast that
Grandpa writes out every day on the table,
The forest of palms and tiger lilies in the center.
In Grandma’s kitchen,
Time seems to stand still, and everything
Is perfect, familiar, right.
Even when the room itself doesn’t belong to
Her anymore, it will always be to me
Grandma’s kitchen.