By Bruce Hamilton © 2002
I sit by my window and weep
at how certain glories don't keep.
The winter was flooded
with starlight whose studded
preciseness implied something deep.
The main approach
warns me to revere all
the branches and some of
the greener needles. I see
in the distracted hour
a tendency toward giving
the trunk a big poke.
Why should I do that, though?
Any such plant signifies
something bigger than a
bull or a ten-cent piece.
AN ABSENCE AT CHRISTMAS
The tenor of holiday cheer
is wounded by something this year.
A heart has departed,
and nature has started
to veer toward a dearness unclear.
The noises and absolute dances
those boxes perform win our glances.
Each music box plays
a game that soon pays
large dividends rife with romances.
There Really IS A Santa
Painting By Tom Sierak
The pronglets and songlets that shine,
from reindeer, are very divine.
Those marvelous creatures
are fabulous teachers
that like their vermouth crisp and fine.
Poinsettias came to the meeting
and shoved all our hearts toward a greeting.
The beasts were the reddish
precursors of dreadish
demeanors both facile and fleeting.
Those wicked and waxy delights
keep shedding soft light on dark knights.
The dark and brave jousters
each act, then, like rousters
of reasons that love to end fights.
The fat and quite laughy old sport
again is requaffing the port.
He sooner or later
will seem like a traitor
to stockings that drink by the quart.
The holly hasn't been cut.
Let's let it remain vibrant.
Some reindeer may wish
that the berries be nibbleable.
The neighbors may find reasons
for liking the fresh colors.
A merry and very bearded old guy
may enjoy getting some leafy relief.
The season demands a reverence
that will stun the very mistletoe.
Several things are inherent.
We should shake the shellac
that shook the shenanigans
that sent the sorrow a slower
seeping. Several sides ascend.
The wicks had a baleful cut
as operant as an old phone's heart.
The wicks had gone crazy.
Lateness invited the flaming.
The holidays are here, and we again
can doff our gloom and shop and shop and shop,
and, if we're lucky, we might think "Amen!"
about how soon some hungers tend to stop.
I keep descrying lights on each far tree,
and every near tree seems pure mistletoe,
and in my little satchels you may see
a big and loud and funny "Ho, ho, ho!"
Come, let's go visit oldsters at their homes
and carol them ecstatically with tunes,
and let's concoct a way of building domes
that keep the static down when much flesh croons.
The streets are happy, and no house may hurt
(at all), for many a newness fills time's skirt.
By Bruce Hamilton © 2002