That this morning we wake up.
And you give us a small ray.
That we keep in our pockets -
throughout this year, this week, this day.
And that when we expect it least,
The ray slips out
Onto those who need it most.

Taking each breath
You now see
What the eyes will never show,
There - a smile,
Here - a year;
clearing out a space,
for yourself-
Lighting the bonfire, heating the hearth-
Light it and
Wait,
Breathe-
And pass the warmth, the glow
to the withered eye, bones and souls,
seeking refuge
under the mighty toll of
The Great Turn.
Hey-**!

As the mind slowly fills with wonder
Thoughts inside begin to wander

Deep thoughts
Dark thoughts

What is the meaning of life?
Where are we from?
Where did it all start?

A sudden pause...

When does it all END...

Anxiety swirls in the air with a struggle
Tears amass from eyes in large puddles

Starting to get tired
Afraid to fall asleep
Time is about to expire
Eventually, eyes slowly close to die in peace...

Suddenly awaken!
How did this happen!?
Reborn?
It is the only explanation!

Jump up to spread the news that life is great
Try our best to get rid of all the hate

Life is here for everyone to enjoy
We are alive and it's time to rejoice!

The bright death of a star
lights the black night from afar.

Astrologers walk from east to west
and follow the nova’s fiery arc.
The burst of white in heavens’ dark chest
gives sign of a birth, love’s new spark.

They walk on through sandy shards of this earth,
past broken glass of our days
to find the one whose heralded birth
gives hope that our world is reglazed.

Held in their hands are gifts replete
that tell what the child will become:
Gold for a king, sweet incense for a priest,
for a healer, myrrh that will scent his tomb.

And the lodestar that died
signals the birth of a child
whose death and rebirth
lit a new star on this earth.

Selah.

Each year I watch them travel in a snow globe
that hangs upon my Yuletide fir tree,
a glowing glass sphere where waters flow
’round these Magi walking magically free.

A marble altar
in a gilded Baroque church —
Poor babe in manger

I don’t go to church but everyday I keep a Angel in my pocket

There is a feeling the guides me, looks upon me, and protects me

A anchor sewn into my clothing, I hold it, I look upon it, and protect it

A mutual obligation that objectifies all inquiry interest

I see it, it sees me

What is the the “it”? A question that spirals and spins

A nuisance, a nag, that makes me feel like a rag

Instead of this I see a enticing idea

Why shall I question anything good?

I’ve read the words that
Made the world.
I’ve sang the psalms
That praised them.

Strung out lyric
Belted from infantile lips
Ever ignorant,
Ever innocent,
Of the abhorrent things
Done under
ritual, devotion,
& bliss

Why would I want to get to heaven?
What if in heaven is my assaulter that repented?
Why would I share an eternity with someone evil like him?
I would rather burn in hell and feel the pain of fire than the pain of despair for eternity.

He is like a god to me
    alpha of my pack, my rescuer and my rock:
his breath like beef’s bouquet
    his words like brittle bones breaking in my mouth.

Our touch like summer
    as I rest my head on his strong thigh:
gazing adoration
    staring petition.

I stalk him
    for the crumb that falls from his plate:
and wait patiently
    for scraps of skin from his repast.

When indecision strikes
      to eat or not to eat:
He nobly leads me to the door
      and tethered takes me out.

He leads me through
    musky canine
          saffron sage
              scented pastures:
and corrects me when
    squirrels like sins
          tempt me to stray.

We romp through rugs
    of red and russet
          fallen fronds:
foraging for
    foully fragrant food
          delight of doggy dentes.

I am his humble hound:
he my mighty man.

For those who can’t face today but still long to see tomorrow, ****** offers a warmth that feels like hope—a hope that never arrives. A wingless, voiceless Gabriel, can’t promise solace only lead leaving at roadside, blind to the other sun. Their false dawn was beautiful,The arch-addict Michael, fallen in his original sin, trading his sword for the syringe. The internal demon is the price many pay for fighting their devil. And as they slip into that false dawn, some are left to wonder: Is it strength, or surrender? It’s nice to think, That could never be me.
Oh how little faith u have This is you for a few missed steps You for that truma, but it’s ok u can see the sun . Is it the dawn , or the dusk. Bright or the dark. Harder to see on the choppy sea. My dreams use to reflect on the still water