"parcels" poems
The Story
by Kamal Nasser
translation by Michael R. Burch
I will tell you a story ...
a story that lived in the dreams of my people,
a story that comes from the world of tents.
It is a story inspired by hunger and embellished by dark nights of terror.
It is the story of my country, a handful of refugees.
Every twenty of them have a pound of flour between them
and a few promises of relief ... gifts and parcels.
It is the story of the suffering ones
who stood waiting in line ten years,
in hunger,
in tears and agony,
in hardship and yearning.
It is a story of a people who were misled,
who were thrown into the mazes of the years.
And yet they stood defiant,
disrobed yet united
as they trudged from the light to their tents:
the revolution of return
into the world of darkness.
Kamal Nasser was a much-admired Palestinian poet and Palestinian Christian, who due to his renowned integrity was known as "The Conscience." He was a member of Jordan's parliament in 1956. He was murdered in 1973 by an Israeli death squad whose most notorious member was future Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Barak. Barak (born Ehud Brog) later ruled as Israel’s tenth Prime Minister from 1999 to 2001. His adopted Hebrew name Barak means "lightning." As a younger man, Brog/Barak was a member of a secret assassination unit that liquidated Palestinians in Lebanon and the occupied territories. In the 1973 covert mission Operation Spring of Youth in Beirut, which was part of the larger Operation Wrath of God, he disguised himself as a woman in order to assassinate Palestinians. The raid resulted in the deaths of two women, one of them an elderly Italian. Two Lebanese policemen were also killed, along with the poet Kamal Nasser.
Nasser was the PLO's most prominent Christian and he enjoyed "great appeal" in Lebanon, Syria, and Iraq "both as a distinguished poet and likeable personality." He was the “conscience of the Palestinian revolution,” according to Nazih Abul-Nidal, who worked with him on the magazine Filastin al-Thawra. Nasser “had the most democratic outlook of all Palestinian leaders at the time,” he recalls. He respected opposing views, admired the commitment of young people, and was a major recruitment asset for the Palestinian revolution. “That is why he was put high on the hit-list.” The previous year, the Israelis had murdered another renowned Palestinian writer and activist in Beirut, Ghassan Kanafani, by booby-trapping his car. Nasser’s successor, Majed Abu Sharar, was also assassinated by Israelis, in Rome in 1981 while attending a conference in solidarity with the Palestinian people.
Keywords/Tags: Kamal Nasser, Palestinian, Palestine, PLO, Conscience, Ramallah, Christian, religion, poet, Arab, Arabic, Arab Spring, betrayal, conflict, courage, devotion
Dec 9, 2021
Dec 9, 2021 at 7:55 AM UTC
So ends the Drama locked into your Bronze
Nike kisses you and shows you her Womb
Who, despite Angry Lads, live Life's Beyond
Now Married are you to Testimony
I guess you will survive the Afterthought
Of Promos and Parcels you will not Resist
The Wheel turns again; And in your Forenaught
Honest Advices refuse to make a Fist
You have this Resume of Deaf-Record,
Partial to Characters you do not Like
Even if they ask Penance for your Accord
Your Self-Righteousness slaps them in-spite.
What's the use? Your Friends will come to your Defense
Even if an Ant like me Stings to make Sense.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 3:52 AM UTC
One is seemingly more impressed
by the less endowed or blessed
when somewhat incapacitated
and borderline inebriated;
the monstrous unconscious
disregards the likelihood
of fathomless undergarments
in other dubious departments.
Disregard the random blotches
or the involuntary discharges
instead revel in model tonsils
and almond shaped parcels
the comets of multi-notches
like a strange attraction
for disheveled carpets.
The blossoms of toxins
a libation ensemble
almost near horizontal
each movement a bent nozzle
like a prehistoric Narwhal
dancing like a jackhammer
with the elegance of a cement mixer
a broken leaking fissure
seeping vapid glamour
and indecipherable grammar.
The paraphrased clichés
and communiques of praise
like lost prophets put on display
caught in the ricochet of overplay
making an exit with the grace
of a stumbling ballet
down a poorly-lit
nightclub passageway.
Ultimately this can only lead to
the face-plant moment-of-tomorrow
the flooded memory of the-night-before
feeling utterly spent
hungover and hollow
with ill conceived consent.
The: Oh. My. God!
The: ***** is still here,
what do I say?
Hoping inexorably
they would just get up
and silently fade away.
Beer Goggles:
remember to drink sensibly,
or run the risk of
nasty STD's
or unwanted pregnancy
or breathless infidelity
or reckless insincerity
or if you're really lucky,
just another
session in therapy.
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 9:17 AM UTC
Grinding....
Leaving it silenced, drawn and quartered
Clawing for the scraps left over
Predicament I found myself in
Or, towards the end of it
Slipping from the edges
Forager focused on finding any way back home
Sidetracked by some apparition left crying
Alone, in the corner
Grinding...
Paused, with rain drops weighted, heavy sense in the air
I can feel my lips turning blue and
Twitching
It's more literal than I would dare dream in a waking nightmare
The smell of every molecule tantamount to another realm
Hangs motionless in the air
The stone transposed becomes a rooftop asylum, overlooking such uncouth misanthropic parcels, self absorbed in this grotesque imagery, a veritable wall of self hate puzzle pieces
Grinding...
Low, on an almost ominous note, still grows colder in my ears
Blowing on winds filled with the spite and righteous
Anti holy
Fully rupturing sound of far off laughter of the
New root
My lips still moving
No sound produced
And my mind
Grinding...
I still pray to god for you
Beset on all sides by the same wickedness
Still afflicted by myself
Argue for arguments sake
****** up on the uptake
I thought that you might want it
I guess I forgot all the subtle ways
The fires spring to life at night
Arguably the wrong choice is
Looking at him
I try not to
Catch that glimpse in his eye
Already my mind races
And my bones are shivering
At the thought alone
Brickwork backing
Still swells maggots
And filing paperwork
For entrapment habits
Grinding
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 4:56 PM UTC
What rarity can acclaim to this elusive title? Where surely
claiming it itself is against its nature.
It might be what our mothers told grubby faced, knee
knocked flecks that dart from graffitied parks
when light turns dark.
Is it in the eye of the beholder, a stubborn piece
of irritating dust? Perhaps those who search
will never be rewarded with a glimpse as
perfection becomes unfathomably further.
Why does the haughty swan rise when the
it squawks more than the pigeon?
Beauty is boxed. It is wrapped in parcels and
swaddled in ribbon until one forgets that it is in the child's
face and not his hands.
Unmeasurable pleasure shouldn't be contained, it roams and commands like a caged tiger. It controls the eye and navigates,
onward soldier. So perhaps it is not rare at all but there
for all customary enough to
anticipate the undeniable.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 12:19 PM UTC
It's an animal beastly thing wrapped up warm in stigmas headlines daydreams sleepdreams ice cream headspin. pain.
Sirens call in my upper chest or my abdomen, maybe. a ****** sea. fish of mens' hooks eels and seaweed wound around aorta blood pumping mind squeezing toes cracking new blister dried fluid. cracks and flakes a flushing cycle, not over the **** yet.
salty eyes heavy chest silver parcels unending quest not shiny particles. Head spin crack of dawn hey look the moon is gone. observed the craters they were my neighbours a hole in my heart like the one......
Don't play mean i try and try green bean carrot pencil brush pen, still here? Run! too hard. Curdling scream turns sour on my tastebuds my tongue has been dissatisfied. Add it to the list! lately I know these things should not have been acknowledged. Bed. No. Kitchen work? Yes. Hurts me through and through and I know it's because it is me and it cannot be handled but it settled in the pit of my stomach and it made itself a happy home. I HATE IT.
BLOOD:
*juice
gore
cruor
claret
hemoglobin
sanguine fluid
clot
plasma
vital fluid*
why would I ever use blood?
Porous salt bruises help mind chooses slugs and moths but i want insects like ladybird bees. Keep me weak and feed me lies because not once did you see me you only looked right past me. how does it feel, little peach, to be dishing out bowls of dinky lies. i ate it you were trusted you were good there's just so many people coming.
when the moon rises and the sky twinkles lights about you its easy to be sad but its time for you to blossom
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
Versions of Faith in the City:
Food parcels Baptist Trinity Church
Post euphoric Olympics nation building
dashed by morally decrepit
Premiership football -
Obscenity chokes dumb defence.
A late Summer's surge,
harshly the un-starred
kick those generic dustbin lids
crumpled again.
Aug 16, 2012
Aug 16, 2012 at 3:15 PM UTC
POLICEMAN in front of a bank 3 A.M. ... lonely.
Policeman State and Madison ... high noon ... mobs ... cars ... parcels ... lonely.
Woman in suburbs ... keeping night watch on a sleeping typhoid patient ... only a clock to talk to ... lonesome.
Woman selling gloves ... bargain day department store ... furious crazy-work of many hands slipping in and out of gloves ... lonesome.
2.4k
If my world's a bakery
in an endlessly large country
you descend upon my city
we pass at the stale loaves
eyelashes flutter, aghast
like I'm an insect assailing your glasses
I watch you smile or grimace
Run your tongue, checking for guilt stuck in your teeth
"Oh! Hhey!!"
Your voice surprises us both
it is the same timbre in which I render
words more decadent than your courage
to spit at my living person
when it stands all but 5'6 and breathing in front of you
washing up bottle messaged on the beaches of my awareness
***** jezebel, ******
-her-
See, I've been receiving your cookies
in brown paper parcels
Little birds didn't want me to miss out on the flavor
I see you, small creature
how quickly you frost your hate
with buttercream icing, your loathing is cake
you devour and feed to anyone who'll taste
You have laid your field fallow
and let me assume disgrace
I want to tell you you're wrong
I want to push you with my mind
I want to throw sprinkles at you
I see you, small creature
with scrunched up fists
and I taste your poison
like grand marnier
it spoils everything
The recipe was followed rule for rule
The souffle rose
***** though you may
I'd almost rather hug you
if it would squeeze out your wretchedness
a flouncing whirl cupcake summit
so we could be tin-pan square
and may our pastry never mix again.
Apr 15, 2012
Apr 15, 2012 at 5:19 PM UTC
Soon be Christmas ...a special day
lots of pressies from Santa's sleigh
children be good or as they say
no big parcels coming your way
Happy Christmas Happy Christmas
to all my friends
Happy Christmas Happy Christmas
to family afar
Happy Christmas Happy Christmas
to one and all
Happy Christmas
Lights from the tree burn and glow
showing the way for santa to go
children waking from little no sleep
parents craving another 2 winks
Happy Christmas Happy Christmas
to all my friends
Happy Christmas Happy Christmas
to family afar
Happy Christmas Happy Christmas
to one and all
Happy Christmas
4am and Santa's been
all those wishes a dreamers dream
wrapping and squeals in lots of houses
turkey in now sherry starters
Happy Christmas Happy Christmas
to all my friends
Happy Christmas Happy Christmas
to family afar
Happy Christmas Happy Christmas
to one and all
Happy Christmas
Dec 17, 2011
Dec 17, 2011 at 1:37 AM UTC
Dear political parties, please stop arguing with other parties and save the nation, the time you wanted our votes you made empty promises .
Service delivery is your daily message,employment is a frog song,water and sanitation is your bed you lay on it.
Where is that promises you made,most of orphans are starving, where is that food parcels.
Opposition parties please stop opening your mouth,you were on that party the time that corruption took place, you always talk and talk but none of the things you fix if is not civil war.
If you were having good promise why don't you help those who are staying in sharks,so that you can talk what you know.
We are all living in Africa,let's not point fingers and do the Job we all given by God,we can not sleep and wake up with grass in our hand .
Together let's join our hands and move Africa forward, this is not Africa for parties is Africa for all, the is no other government the government is you.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 10:38 AM UTC
As a silly spoilt child
Disgruntled I grumble
Throughout my blessed life
Complaining about my loss
That God does not give a toss
But abundantly in my life
Scattered in my garden
Live deep hidden forests
Sacred special spaces
Forgotten mossy places
Things I can not see
In my soft mossy pastures
I am drawn into sound
Soft rich earthy ground
My meddling hands resigning
And my heart softening
To the treasures God is bringing
As a child I am sometimes
still screaming for what
I am not receiving
Even though chosen
But my loving Father
Always refusing to
serve me poison
But he keeps on giving
Life's unexpected gifts
Full of presents and parcels
An unknown cultivated Karma
A forgotten ignored pleasure
Actually look at all the treasure
Everyday a Christmas tree
If I could only look and see
So in my adult days
I learn to look on
In different ways
With a mossy heart
I nourished and softening
receiving parcels tenderly
passed down from heaven
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 10:12 PM UTC
Is back..
It gives you a smile a mile wide to see Gypsy John is back
Gypsy John with cart, horse and dog by his side
People call from far and wide to deliver parcels of food for Gypsy John and his crew.
Gypsy John sets up camp in the middle of the road, on what's called a roundabout.
Gypsy John is getting old and sits around a camp fire to warm his cold bones and cook his food.
Gypsy John does not like favours and takes his food begrudgingly, instead he will work all day for his pay, locals find him work indoors.
When one cold winter came, locals crowd funded to buy him a new cart, his horse was retired as very old, £12000 was raised to keep Gypsy John and his animals well.
Gypsy John comes with the change of season as summer turns to fall.
Gypsy John is a reminder and reason to us all to keep going work hard and live long.
Long live Gypsy John.
Oct 8, 2017
Oct 8, 2017 at 5:45 AM UTC
Soon be Christmas ...a special day
Lots of pressies from Santa's sleigh
Children be good or as they say
No big parcels coming your way
Happy Christmas Happy Christmas
to all my friends
Happy Christmas Happy Christmas
to family afar
Happy Christmas Happy Christmas
to one and all
Happy Christmas
Lights from the tree burn and glow
Showing the way for Santa to go
Children waking from little no sleep
Parents craving another 2 winks
Happy Christmas Happy Christmas
to all my friends
Happy Christmas Happy Christmas
to family afar
Happy Christmas Happy Christmas
to one and all
Happy Christmas
4am and Santa's been
All those wishes a dreamers dream
Wrapping and squeals in lots of houses
Turkey in now sherry starters
Happy Christmas Happy Christmas
to all my friends
Happy Christmas Happy Christmas
to family afar
Happy Christmas Happy Christmas
to one and all
Happy Christmas
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 1:50 AM UTC
The clock smiled at us
as if it knew we were lost.
Unable to see the path, we continued along
on the wrong side of the ones and zeroes.
Tired of our aimless float;
fumbling along in the vacuums of our ignorance.
With all kinds of navigational aids to chart our journey
we mostly relied upon the compass tattooed over our hearts
While lost in the chasm of our indecision
our bodies and minds listed.
Our attempts to unpack the endless
parcels of our unrest ... proved futile.
So carefully, we re-learned the ABCs
and re-interpreted the Western Canon, finding
that it was only by closing our eyes
that we were able to see; were able to feel.
However, the rhythm was off
which was immaterial as
our feathers were ruffled and
the rhetoric was pluming.
With the overture of the new day dawning
we turned our back
on the algorithms of our demise
and shucked off self-imposed limitations.
You see, it was thirty seconds to midnight and
the world that never seemed to want us
needed us now.
So like anemic royalty, we took flight
breathing down rarefied air and
gulping the nuances of our resilience to swallow:
our intergenerational trauma
one more time.
Jul 28, 2020
Jul 28, 2020 at 8:09 PM UTC
_Buttered parcels filled,
With rose hips and cinnamon;
Heartache’s antidote._
May 21, 2020
May 21, 2020 at 7:41 PM UTC
Hey Yalie, Diurnal Rituals Yield the Best Poetry
A Yalie jogs before dawn, her senses being exercised,
semi-aware there’s layered poetry out there and it must
be retrieved, for the eyes observe the diurnal arousing of the day,
and this too, must be recorded, part of the ordered duties of living, as the skin cells shed sweat droplets and
words of living, parcels of breathing, a diary of notations,
to educate the brain in ways and things that
professors cannot teach…
every sense operative, interactive, sound off neurotic synapses,
are acrackling, as you lay out the day ahead, calendar and
assignment checks, but the senses don’t care
about that
trivial minutiae of living
nope
the words are now coming fast and you hope your best that
you will retain, retrain the memory to savor save, those
combos of images encapsulated in new word combinations,
that are yours alone, unique, proving to no one but
yourself, that education, science et. al. is a seeded embryo &
you the valedictorian of birth commencement ceremony
so put them trainers on,
and by dawning daylight you are awondering,
now becoming a pondering, and the
question never spoke aloud but oft posed,
is this, this is,
this is why I exist,
and
my identity?
***I am an institution in my own right,
in my own write.***
Saturday Nov 4
8:01am
nyc
Nov 4, 2023
Nov 4, 2023 at 8:12 AM UTC
You found me
stuck staring
at rearview mirror reflections
of wintry, dusk intersections
of everything leaving me
all at once.
A forced exhale
of asphyxia caged
in collapsing lungs;
my mouth,
a fountain spring,
that coughed out
pools of blood.
I wish I saw myself
the way you saw me;
not a red traffic light
wounding speeding cars
on winding streets,
but an antique heirloom
priceless enough
you'd only wish
you could keep
in a heart-shaped box
you saw in dreams.
But, I'd cut my tongue,
paint my lips cherry shades
to blend with cells that'd stain
handkerchiefs you'd offer.
Make you believe
this isn't going to foster
because you are indecision,
unfinished watercolor landscapes
of summer forest fire skies,
a sun-kissed Pacific wanderer.
And I am true crime
untouched evidence of break-ins,
remains of faulty locks and lights.
I am mosaics misaligned;
static, seabed cracks
from forgotten fault lines.
Gaping fissures of sand,
and salt that won't let me stitch
frayed skin-deep fibres
barely holding me in.
Oceans would have to empty themselves
into whirring cyclones and high tides
for our selfish sense of touch to collide.
Ice caps would have to sink
deep enough to even bruise my skin.
And I wouldn't want to watch
more Shakespeare end
before it begins.
*See, I am the one
with sharp edges,
but why
did you have to be the one
to clip my wings?*
There is only an abyss
without a trampoline,
a safety net,
a bed of waterlilies,
I could fall in.
And I am so tired
of paradoxes
and ironies;
of always being wanted
by someone who doesn't even
want to be kept,
of always being mended
and then left
with more dislocations,
and fractures,
one after another
each taking longer to fix.
Now, in shapeless parcels,
without return addresses
sent out into the void
these words will echo
of love
I never intended to borrow,
and shadows
of false hope
you never thought yourself
capable of
giving away.
Jul 26, 2019
Jul 26, 2019 at 6:02 AM UTC
Come to me with all that you are
Leaving nothing behind
Make no attempt to conceal a scar
Nor wound of body or mind
Bring all your lifelong memories
Whether fragments or complete
Your daydreams and your reveries
Your tales, your songs, your grief
Let old dwellings be deserted
Pack each and every thought
Allow no baggage to be diverted
Every aspect to be brought
Load up your darkness and your light
Make parcels of all you know
Wrap strength and weakness, wrong and right
Prepare them all to go
Make ready your heart for travel
Include chips and pieces scattered
Edges beginning to unravel
Even dust, from when it shattered
Be sure no detail is forsaken
Have no token to give in lieu
Delivery will be signed and taken
With all the love I bear for you
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 9:32 PM UTC
Soot and ashes are the platter from which I dine,
the pool of my flagellation is the outpouring Merlot.
I forget to breathe through the lash,
rending the sackcloth until my nakedness is set before you.
The bells harken, the pendulum keeps time,
my requiem is set by your pulse.
DO NOT dismiss me, DO NOT neglect to
render my salvation in parcels.
Level after level of purgatory the holy grail
I imbibe and drink in ruin.
As the shredding of my skin with filaments of rope,
dislplay a journey of persecutions selfless ardor.
Crouching I beseech, I grovel,
forming steepled hands.
Oh, humble penance
slips my parched tongue and crippled lips.
Sweet King, Soveriegn Lord, Merciful Master,
I cower in my nothingness,
wrapped in the robes of bleak shame.
STILL I PRESS FORTH,
through decadent chambers,
in filth for a glimpse of your being.
For the simple gesture of uttering
your name.
Does your crown sweat with the bulk of my sobs?
To wipe your brow,
smear your worries on my bodice.
Enticing you from your throne to love...
a slave.
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 9:47 AM UTC
You don’t understand,
At first it was a compromise I had to accept,
The sulfur-ridden stench that blazed my nostrils
And made me seek a foreign tongue.
They do not think I worked
But I did.
I washed the pains that clenched at
My existence.
I refused to ignore that foul pulpous print.
Lured did it!
Lured me to utmost perfection.
Then John became but a stone
In lurking shadows completely unseen.
I revealed me to myself
And hands were not shaken, that was not custom.
Into the circle of my life
One revelation proved its superiority,
And now its comfort has deserted me.
Take me back
Take me back
Wrap me in your shredded parcels of paper-tainted glory
Tinge me with indecencies. I fear no guilt.
I want to see my better half sing
And dance between lines and smudges that thwart
Into perception,
To suspend the hour.
Being.
Doing.
Without Needing
To be
There is no sanctuary here
I lie in a familiar position now
The attic floor cools my flushed face
Pinching nerves cultivate essence
My hands clench a tight fist
My knuckles…
They bleed yellow.
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 12:33 PM UTC
a refugee from wealth,
he and his Dartmouth degree found the spot
farthest from his New England roots, and the first roots
he saw there were those of a banyan tree, giant gray tentacles
piercing the Asian earth, imploring the black soil
for atonement, he thought
the natives said the tree was older than God
immortal, but cursed with some blight that bedeviled them
and that prudent pruning of ailing arms would be wise
the man had only a Swiss Army knife
with its minuscule saw, but soon he set about the task
of trimming the behemoth, one mad millimeter at a time,
and mad was all the natives saw
this white creature, high in the canopy,
often from dawn until the sun sank in the jungle behind him
sawing away, a half branch a day, treating the gargantuan arboreal
like a prize bonsai
villagers would come, hunker, watch in the shade of the tree
once in a great while, they would see a branch crash on the ground,
at which time they cheered the pitifully patient woodsman
many offered to help, some leaving bow saws,
axes at the banyans' base, but he would have none of that
over and over he received new red knives with their tiny saws
these parcels the only mail he got
even during monsoon rains,
the man's labors did not desist
though his audience waned
appearing to defy physics' uncertain laws
the tree was nearly felled, but the man disappeared
before his colossal task was done, the locals claiming he climbed
into the thinned canopy one day and never came down
not even a well worn blade was found
allowing the witnesses to aver he was yet high in the heavens
resting after love's labor had wearied his hands
but perchance healed his heart
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 2:46 PM UTC
When it's all going smooth, you're talking millions weekly
JC is on his way, to pick up bundles of illicit US drug money
Trouble is getting it back to Mexico and depositing in the banking secretly
There are members of the cartel, that have anywhere up to $300 million, pure honey.
Just sitting idle in their houses and they can't spend or use of it, not even a bit
Once you've gone into partnership with the cartels
You're only handling their money or changing it
You can't leave, they'll find you, kidnap your family and Fedex them back as parcels
They tell you "you have to do this"
If not, they will **** you and they don't ever miss.
Here is the money. What do I with it then?
I get 5 ID's and I'm going to the currency exchange to change the dollars again
You always have to give $200 to the cashier, which we put in here
She logs into the system and records the transactions, that appear
Just as though they were made by tourists
Then we pass them onto our cartel bosses, who are very near us.
The cash is now laundered and its origin erased
They can deposit their money, which is now clean into Pesos, that can't be traced
But this cash started its journey 3,000 miles away
One of the biggest narco distribution hubs in America, I'd say
The windy cities railway, port and interstate highway systems, are the best
Making it the ideal location, distributing Dope and Cash from across the Midwest.
Approximately 70% of the US population lives within a day's drive of Chicago
The Southside is where a lot of the business gets done, just like in Eldorado
Every deal is a drop in the bucket, that contributes to a mighty river of cash
Chicago has over 70 gangs, with up to 150,000 members, who are all smoking hash
Making it the largest and badest gang capital of the America’
Handling the retail, an army of local gangbangers we call the Drug Gangsta's.
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 6:03 PM UTC
Benadryl and chill.
Anti hystamine dreaming.
Pre meditated drug dealing.
Over inflateted egos.
Boys with Legos
for brains.
Hussling at gas station.
Sending little paper parcels
to wide doe eyes.
Getting high is more fun, anyways.
Most days,
I'd rather play pretend.
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 9:14 AM UTC
~
the mercury is falling brisk,
large flakes of snow are drifting fast,
her blanket heavy on the limb,
as ice paints frosting on the glass.
winter’s tapestry is forming,
street lamp’s light reflecting;
strands of pearl stretch out, adorning,
as fir transformed by snow,
become a white angelic host.
a fire burns brightly in the square,
hands and cheeks find warming here;
sound of bells festoons the evening,
children dance along in time;
’round a village Christmas tree,
bedecked with lights, the smell of pine,
a whistle heralding the train’s arrival,
a burst of steam floats on the breeze;
her clacking wheels grind to a halt,
and like treasure’s journey from afar,
one by one, her most precious cargo
laden down with parcels, disembark.
excited voice, in joyous welcome,
warmest hugs, wet kiss on cheek;
familiar sound of families greeting,
newborn babe grandparent meets.
here my heart on Christmas Eve,
to us though distant memory;
for snow globe wishes,
and angelic kisses,
each as magical as these,
a hopeful prayer, a song for peace,
on earth for all who still can sing
who long... who dream,
of Christmas yesteryear;
though even if a different scene,
it's ember’s spark...
it's wistful call...
this is Christmas present,
its gift love-scribed,
on ev'ry tender heart!
~
*post script.
as Christmas arrives for you and
your family, may you be present,
reflecting, not on what is missing,
but on the joys of all that is not!
Merry Christmas to each of you.
who still dream!*
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 3:38 PM UTC