The True Spirit Of Christmas

When they think of their holly-jolly season
have they not the wherewithal of reckoning or reason
to think of the jolly fat man with his rosy-cheeked smile
but an avatar of delusion, an effigy of denial?
Think back to our ancestors and their bitter winters
that bit with winds and snows, the icy splinters
of that fanged desolation with its arctic blasts
and the famine and the silence, the starvation that lasts
much overlong, as a cruel-clawed hag of want
whose every kiss leaves us shivering and gaunt;
and so do not deceive yourself with dazzling lights
or warm fireside carols, or candied chocolate bites,
nor smile in cheer of a frosty-bearded elf—
rather, see it from the distant ancestral self;
look back through the cold and the darkness
to see black and white, life and death, in all its starkness:
see this wendigo calamity of each passing year
returning round again with the gift of fear,
and humility, and the keen awareness of Death
as they huddled in huts together, their communal breath
heavy with cold, an apparition of prayer
frosting upon our lips, stillborn upon the air,
and recall, too, the jolly saint withered, frost-bitten,
his fingers fallen off after he has eaten each mitten
and his red suit now white with the furious blizzard
while he wanders, snowblind, like a deranged wizard.
See him burn down a whole forest of Christmas trees
to raise his body temperature by a few degrees,
and now he calls out to children, shakes his sleigh bells,
and hungers for youthful meat while the wind wails.
His reindeer shun him, for they all wisely know
not to trust a starving man, or his laughing “Ho ho ho…”
I suppose we ought feel merry for a bellyful of Christmas hog
rather than long-pig roasting over the cruel yuletide log.

Vixen

Headlights glinted in a pair of mischievous eyes
before the fox turned, disappearing behind her own tail
and into an overgrown field, the tenebrous skies
falling heavy over the blackened backwoods vale.
Headlights dimmed and died and the man stepped out,
gazing across the glass, darkly, of a reed-riddled pond,
and walking down from the dead-end lane’s turnabout
toward the driveway, and to the farmhouse beyond.
The house was large, old, three storeys tall
and its porch had but one outside light shining
to glow across the porch, peeling back the pall
of Night as it weighed upon the horizon’s lining.
Each window was a skull-socket in that half-lit facade—
all but one on the top floor, in a far corner where
a single foxfire candle burned; and so, with a nod,
the man approached the tree that stood parallel there.
As he looked up he remembered her freckled face
and her pink lips as she had waved goodbye,
riding her bike away from his much-maligned place
after promising a taste of her wild strawberry pie.
He had watched her while his blood burned and rose,
Lust a devil that had taken to rutting inside his head
and he grinned like an ape to think of her clothes
torn to reveal strawberry-and-cream flesh outspread.
So he climbed the oak, rising with a lust-feverish grasp
on branches and twigs and even the bark’s scales
until, at length, he came to grab the hot window clasp
and raised it, hearing, for the first time, fairy bells.
“I’m comin’ in, darlin’,” he said, his breath lurching
as he gazed into the candlelit room, his grin so wide
that he looked like a beast upon that branch, perching
like a Nightmare astride a dreamer with nowhere to hide.
He was so startled when the rifle met his eager eye
that he lost his grasp and fell from that tall tree,
tumbling headfirst into his final bed, to forever lie
while a fox laughed, as a girl, with glee.

Free “Chloe Among The Clover” giveaway.

Chloe2coversmallscale

 

This weekend I will be having a giveaway for my children’s novel “Chloe Among The Clover” on Amazon kindle. The novel follows a chick in the (literal) Summer of youth and is intended for children on a surface level, but also is intended for adults in its symbolism and subtext. I have received positive feedback from children and adults, so if you want some light reading, give it a try. There is a paperback version too, priced at $8. I hope to have the sequel, “Stormy Within The Strawberry Patch”, ready by Christmas.