Let Us Now Praise

Before they died they didn’t have a prayer,

And after no one heard. Inside the dark,

The ancestors inhabit empty space,

And they among. Bronze statues with a gene

In common look out at a distant sea

There in Nebraska, this the way they’re made,

Brittle and with that green pocked skin we give

Survivors, if they promise not to speak.

They keep their promises, which makes them special.

In life there was no little yellow barge

To ferry them to restitution, dull

Made serviceable. One, a tomahawk

Stuck in his stone cold belt, attempts a smile

And fails. He does not see a better day.

The True Meaning of Christmas

 

On this night we observe the world of guilt,

Our consciences full of marzipan and myrrh,

And conifers where crabgrass clippings were,

Poinsettias, never to grow or wilt,

Unless tomorrow comes. And no one tells

The littlies, That is so. The manger moves

To U-Rent Storage Lockers, and the bells,

The bells, and clever evidence of hooves

Abscond, like fireflies or currant puds.

We are returning all our gifted goods.

We are remembering the little slights.

We’re cold and lonely on these winter nights.

Who knows what reindeer do in northern woods,

Where no one can unstring the brilliant lights?