---

In Conwy, I had a feast
Of sheepish dumplings,
Bacon-wrapped haddie,
When Huzzah! What dost I hear in the streets
But a parade straight from the dark ages!
With jesters and knights of plastic,
Princesses and papier-mâché dragons,
Marching with torches through the snow
Harking and barking with great gusto
As the crowds followed to and fro
Trying to see which way to go
In the snow.
And when they all gather in the square
To huddle under the Christmas Tree there
That rustic neighborhood holiday treat
Marked us all to join in carols.
“Ding Dong Merrily” – they began –
And I began –
The crowd did not began.
They chattered and swore at the cold,
They giggled with coughing and lolled,
And the knights were simply not projecting
Their voices dissipating in the thickness of air –
As the bored, restless crowd gave up on caroling
And stuck to caterwauling
While I retired to the Pen y Bryn
To celebrate on my own, with a scalding shower
And pretend the event was a glorious Christmas thing.

---

---

Amidst the piney forest
Glazing snow-capped peaks
I seek a frigid rest
Wandering wan for weeks –
Muscles wobble weakly
Throat cracked thin for gin
I stumble headlong down a pass
Into blizzard-stricken glen.

Hark, a din
In darkened den –
There lies the Blind Elk Inn.

Warmth belies that smallish shack
Wherein lodgers feast on stew –
Bundled up in scratchy blankets
Crowded round a chimney flue 
Where a stoat spins on the spit
Crusted in a blackened coat –
The balding host, he tends the bar
To beer bellies further bloat.

I pine a pint of whiskey which
Is served, with eyes all staring fast,
For I am frozen, spirit and skin:
Beard icicles, hands alabast.
“Stranger, where you hail from
In this whirling winter gale?
Don’t you know Yuletide’s the night
Favoring heralds of Hell?

They howl atop Refraction Point,
A prismic cone of ice,
Where all your dreams are crystallized
From failure’s avarice.”
I slurped the stew, a meek
“Farewell.” For that is where I seek
The answer to my darkest wake
Upon that deathly peak.

A fearful dream does call me there
From vitals’ safest haven;
Back I limp ‘midst glazed eyes
Upon that snowfall craven
Which whisks me out beyond that hole
Into a frigid gale
That melds the bite of sleet and snow
Into a pot of hail.

Why I did leave
This Christmas Eve
To be bereaved
Is – 
Through flurry
I naught perceive.

My sleep had dwindled daily
From plagues of evil thoughts
That crammed their shades inside my skull
Until health and humour clots,
But they betrayed a certain remedy
In glimpse of Refraction Point.
See now you why I brave this Hell:
To dream and peace conjoint.

But that beady-eyed bartender
Bussing booze in Blind Elk Inn
Has got me scared for what haunts there,
And doubts fester within.
My courage has been but trouble
And my faith not far from foolish,
And I know, surviving night Noel,
There’s no guarantee a wish.

But ’tis too late –
Snowbank recedes
Conic lake of ice
Glassy, clear, reflective, bare
The bald head of Old Winter himself:
Refraction Point.

Ice scalds my reddened face
Palms peel back their skin
Feet rub raw in rotted wool
But these eyes –
These eyes feel new again
To see those lights on Christmas Night,
A spectrum of colors never seen,
Imbues the blizzard with Zion’s delight.

And those voices, ethereal choir,
Singing with a joy
I’ve never seen or felt on Earth
In a heartfelt, heatfelt blast
That melted gone the swirling snow
From land and sky to brain and toe
In time with an unearthly paintbrush 
Dancing cross the starry canvas
Pulsing in a vocal swell
‘Till throats turn to a brassen croon
Opening celestial wide to man
No matter the gates he built inside –
All are powerless, ice but water
Under the touch of the spectres’
Hearth.

Disregarding the sleek surface –
Spirited along –
I met one of those beings shimmering
Between our world and theirs
Beneath its instrumental brethren –
Extending an arm, caressing my cheek,
Warmth traveling through tendrils
Like mist over a jagged sea
To a frozen shore pliable under
Such delicate pressure.

Midnight lifts angelic chorus
Mouths a-humming, veil of
Electric energy in the crackling
Space reverberating up
From the flat mirror of the peak.
Otherworldly hymn fades –
Ensembled joy dissipates –
But the joy of that encounter
Remains afloat around me.

But what had seized the Blind Elk Inn
In its absent reason?
Taking angels for devils, a song for a howl,
A night for some natural treason.
Wherein they felt hot fire of death
I drank sweet waters of life,
For those who only see that of the Earth
Blindly accept all its strife.

Yet, for me –

Those dreams of fear and anger
Vacated from my mind.
This Christmas tells, on lesser days,
How to live in kind:
Heavy snow that blocks our view
Turns blessing in disguise
If we seek what’s more than us
And listen to the skies.

---

---

Hello, sweet Death,
Where have you been hiding?
I am tired
I am weary
I am weak
Since I lay in abject sadness
Show yourself in morbid gladness –
Come close, sweet Death,
Draw near, draw near.

Come close, sweet Death,
Let me feel your whispers.
They are calming
They are fragrant
They are peace
In this cold asphyxiation
I am warmed by adoration
Take me, sweet Death,
Draw near, draw near.

The love of lilies underground
Broken down by youthful sound
In the air
A spark of lights flies flashing round;
It is said to come in your dream
When it’s time to join that stream
Of the souls
That fill up the night sky,
Twinkling by.
Take me, sweet Death,
Into your tender arms.
You are gentle
You are freeing
You are life
Up beyond this world of madness
Show me to your realm of gladness
Keep me, sweet Death,
Draw near, draw near.

---

---

If you had forgotten
Christmas Eve –
Traditions begotten
On silent leave –
Permit me recall
To your dusty mind
This baggage I haul,
You’ll nowhere else find.

I squat here alone underground, so dark –
A basement built by my hands, so hark!
I’ll tell you whence forth my grievances spark
And render future shortcomings for easier mark.

Up above,
In social construction,
The warring Dove,
Cultural destruction,
Builds its nest
In countless homes:
A restless pest
Rewriting tomes.

The music plaguing the air for stones –
The force of their biting chill breaks bones
As under the crunch a longing heart moans
To futilely mend incomparable loans.

Those stones I count
Comprise the Earth;
Their cheerless mount
Is worthless mirth,
Each moment made
For itself beside –
As they ignorant fade,
I bide, I hide.

I bide for a time in the past, long away,
And every day fall to my knees and pray
That it returns in days ahead for to stay –
But I know such dreams far graven lay.

Children beaming
Cold snow mold
Ornaments gleaming
Arms sweet hold
Warm fire ablaze
Sweet feast delight –
A Star will raise,
Eager for night.

But I remain under cover of tomb, deep below,
Huddled near a pine from which candles glow –
But how long I wait, I grow caring less to know
As my hope with the flames flicker off and out-blow.

---

---

Fluffy birds are nestled in knots,
Bristled badgers buried in dens,
Frosted ground glimmers white under starlight
At exactly three quarters past ten.

Concealed deep beneath pines
Atop a hill of humbling height
Hides the most comforting spot for a sleep
On a snowy Christmas night.

There quaintly perches a house
Built of logs from the forest around,
And in those snug cozy quarters
Elderly husband and wife will be found.

They rock in a swing on the porch –
Their fingers, numb intertwined –
As they gaze in taciturn contemplation
Of that crystal snowscape refined.

“My darling, how quiet the Earth is,”
Whispered the youthful old man to his wife.
“My dear, what would you expect,
Past rackets having been more than rife?”

The gentle old woman sighed,
Her warm breath penetrating the cold;
They were both worn dry to their bones,
Wrinkle o’er wrinkle, wistful fold.

Their children and their children
Had just driven off out of sight
To the sonorous voice of Elvis
Blessing a snowy Christmas delight.

The cabin that was filled with cheer,
Peals of laughter, light of love,
Is a cavern with weak candles still burning
To the tune of the stars up above.

“Do you recall how we found this place,
And decided to construct a home?
It’s moments like these that assure me
It’s better to settle than roam.”

“Though it was quite long ago,
It feels like but three days have passed.
Yet I know this feeling not to be true
From our heartfelt memories amassed.”

Life grows sweeter with age
Like a rich red burgundy wine;
So long as the dreams that you treasure
Sparkle, and independently shine.

With a creak of joints and wood
That the lovers heard not at all,
They retired into that warm empty cabin
To heed Sleep’s succulent call.

But their house is far from empty
When you consider the magic within;
The crackling hearth dimly exposing
Dusty records, their continuous spin.

The earthen, timber-lined walls
Hoist high traditional décor:
A carpet shows Santa guiding his sleigh
Towards a homely wreath-garnished door.

A massive conifer darkens the room,
Silver tinsel brightens the hall,
A smoky aroma of holiday feast
Wafts between each glittering ball.

The cabin, though dormant, sleeping,
Like the frozen forest outside,
But offers a warmer, calm, peace-seeking lull,
Which in its redwood parents confides.

Feelings felt, received, and deeply revered
As contented folks snuggle in bed:
Someone to hold, to love, to cherish forever,
And a firm, comely roof overhead.

This cabin atop that small hill
Stands sturdy through each passing year
So long as you keep your mind focused
On what you ought to hold dear.

They are the simplest things in the world,
Though hardest to find, their joy never trite –
And you know the Lord’s been good to you
On a snowy Christmas night.

---

---

The snow whistled round in deep circles,
Each flake shining with colorful light.
The snowbanks drowned out the pavement
On that empty, dark, cold Christmas night.

Old Marley’s Pub was rife with those bums;
Every tortured and twisted lost soul
Stumbled through here for some warmth and some beer
And to ensure that their story was told.

That was my job, as Marley’s old bartender:
To listen to each drunkard’s ruin.
Their sorrows rank from the whiskey they drank,
Weeping from tales of misfortune.

Midnight was nearing, that particular Christmas,
And the customers now started to thin,
When the door let in a sharp winter blast
And a man swept in on that wind.

His clothes were tattered and soiled
And his hair fell in thick, dirty strands;
But his eyes shone like glittering round baubles
As he furiously rubbed his large hands.

The crowd paid no attention to the stranger
As he floated straight up to the bar
And sat down on a stool right before me,
His face lit by the evening star.

“What have you tonight, dear stranger?
Take your time, for I’m here to serve.”
He smiled, his crowns stained disgustingly black,
“Isn’t there someone who would better deserve?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
His implications made little sense.
“May I tell you a story, friendly bartender?
There’s no reason to get all that tense.”

“That’s my job in this house, believe it or not,
To hear the customer’s narration.”
He chuckled “Trust in me, and you will see,
‘Tis not on I you must expend all your patience.”

“For I tell you correct, meaning no disrespect,
That you seem at the end of your rope.
You care too little for yourself, and thus
On this Night of all nights, you lost hope.”

The snow whistled round in deep circles,
Icy tears trickled down my stone face.
He was right; after one drink too many
My wife left me in total disgrace.

I didn’t heed to her desperate pleas,
The pleasure being unconquerable.
It all went too far, and she packed up and left…
Oh, how could I be such a fool?

“You despair for your pitiful state
Thinking that you are alone because of your sin.
But you forget that, tonight, it is Christmas.
If not now, then never to mend.”

“My friend, the Father lost not love
When his children constantly spat in his face.
And on this sacred Night he sent his Son down to Earth
To graciously die in their place.”

“You consider yourself completely unworthy
Of the forgiveness you desperately need.
Remember on this Night, above all others,
Ask, and you shall receive.”

The snow whistled round in deep circles,
He and I the only ones left in the bar.
I replied, “She won’t want to hear me.
And I’m sure that her love’s fallen far.”

The man spoke in the gentlest rasp,
“It’s time that you went to the phone.
You know well as I, on this Night of all nights,
That love cannot stand to be lone.”

He rose from his seat with a sigh
And slid silently ‘cross the floor.
Then, without looking behind him,
He stopped, motionless, at the door.

“You’ll regret if you refuse to forgive
Or to give all your feelings for her.
On this dark Christmas Eve, do remember,
That comfort is the thing most sought for.”

The snow whistled round in deep circles
As the realization dawned in my mind;
By giving up, I throw away love,
And love ne’er again will I find.

It’s foolish to make suppositions
Of the people we care about most.
If we could all just learn the forgiveness
Gave by the King of the Heavenly Host.

We all are unmistakably human;
Within each of us countless flaws.
To look past the similarities of our sinful nature
Is to find the sinless nature of God.

That love is what brings us together
Not that which breaks us apart.
We must all learn to love when we’ve lost hope of loving
And find true forgiveness in heart.

Then I looked towards the door for the man,
But the man wasn’t there to be found.
When I was thinking, he must have got tired from waiting
And walked out the door without a sound.

I stumbled into the snow in pursuit
As if guided by a hope-induced trance.
I was met with nothing but snowflakes and dreams
Sweeping on in their magical dance.

The tinsel was wrapped round the lampposts,
The wreaths on the doors were all hung,
The tree in the square put an ache in my heart
And prompted me onwards to run.

The snow whistled round in deep circles,
But the words of that ghost lingered on;
If we hold back the love that we were all meant to give,
Pretty soon that love will be gone.

We are blinded by a selfish perception
And cower for fear we could not atone.
I’ve kept my wife waiting alone long enough.
It’s Christmas: We all should be home.

---

---

Christmas is, in a word, ephemeral;
It only lasts as long as lasting will allow.
But the idea, and the warmth, and the mood it holds dear
Is held dear in our hearts…for now.

The world about us is changing
As the veil of nostalgia grows thin.
But the child inside all is watching, waiting,
For that night of all nights to begin.

The flakes float through the dark;
Crisp and cool, sharp and cruel,
Prancing against a landscape of glittering lights.
They might stick to the ground,
Perfect playthings for all the world’s youth,
Or they might continue their windswept flight.

The ice that soon forms from the water
That drips…drips…drips slowly down
Freezes end upon end to the gutters on roofs
And adheres to the hearts within men.

The fire that glows from the hearth in each home
Has the power to thaw and the strength to endure
Every frost-bitten soul on the ice-ridden plains
And the gales of sleet shed from the clouds unseen.

The lake lies still, transformed to a transparent sheet,
Sketches across the surface carved by the meticulous dance
Of skates and sleds and their iron kin
That skidded and sliced through its shiny skin.

The road through the town is covered
By a glistening layer of snow.
The lights and the wreaths hang over the old-thyme shops;
Bundled carolers singing familiar hymns beneath.

The scent of cookies waft from the bakeries
The sugary smells tinting the air.
Toy shops proudly display their varied array
Of soldiers, trains, planes, guns, and dolls.

A host of holy angels sing of their choral bliss
Conducted by the King of Kings,
For whom this joyous season was founded
And all the world besides.

A magnificent fir tree stands erect
In the centre of town, flaunting its grandeur,
Decked out in flashing red bulbs, sparkling silver tinsel,
Glass ornaments of every size, shape, and color.

Each branch stretches out to be noticed,
A heavenly angel is perched on its crown,
Its needles perk up in the chilly winter air
And its trunk steadies the weight of its festive gown.

A feast is spread at the table;
Turkey and stuffing, potatoes and ale,
Green beans: boiled with bacon and onions.
Pumpkin pie: sprinkled with ginger and whipped cream.

The snowflakes are spun round in circles,
Embroidering and lighting the night.
Their beauty outshines every man-made glorification
With its dance so swift, wet, and white.

These snowflakes only dance in my head,
And the town lights up only there, too.
Reality has made this dream a mere fabricated fable
And the snow a lifeless product of nature.

Let it go, what you know of the present
Let it go, what you covet from the past
Let it go, what you have carved for your future
Seize it now, what you find in your heart.

Christmas is not just a day;
It is a state of mind, state of heart
From which all evil is thrown out the door
And creation’s depravities depart.

I have never once seen the scene I have described unto you,
Nor have I lived in its splendor.
But, I believe, whether your years are front or behind,
We all long for such a snow-blessed Christmas Eve.

I exist in this Christmas my mind has created,
The hope for reality grows all the more feeble.
But the hope for my dream endures
All of these bleak Decembers,
For white is in the winter night
That everyone remembers.

---

---

From what can you not make babies?

a writer his writing
a musician her music
a scientist his science
a businesswoman her business

Each case was called to birth, to care for, to cultivate a child of purpose –
Maybe even more than one.
Loving the moments when growth is all too clear,
Relishing the little successes that prove it is an infant
No longer.

For a few moments only, this peculiar child might find itself lost,
Not in the arms of its parent, who promised
Blue skies would ride out the gales of discouragement.

Would the baby find life if the parent did not believe it so?

If not, then a different child is borne – one of darkness and despair.

---

---

…Ah.
Where am I?
Hm…
Oh, yeah, that’s right…

Do you ever get to worrying
When New Years comes and goes
What the coming months will bring
And what you’ll have to show?
I urge you now, please, not to think
Jumping years will be that hard
When you hear my yearly struggle
Is just getting it to start.

I’m spending New Year’s in the E.R.
Since my heart’s stopped seven times –
The sentence for the crime
Of living past my prime –
It’s been like this for twenty years
For no reason, with no rhyme.
So, pardon thee,
It seems to me
To dread and hate uncertain Fate
Who still has yet to start
Is for those he’ll never satiate,
Namely: the sick at heart.

See, my soul’s in poor condition,
Wracked with spasms from the fear
Of a liver in consumption
Brought on by leagues of beer –
Draughts to drown the pain
Of rusted staples in my gut
Infecting toes to brain
And filling up fresh cuts
With festering bacterium
That reek of mold and milk –
All this, and more, makes me glum
As the Reaper’s bill I bilk.

That bill I reap come January
At midnight on the first
Restarts the vicious cycle,
Gives my health an ailing thirst
Which can’t be quenched by anything
And so I can’t but wait
To see if my poor failing heart
Fulfills what, at this rate,
Will be the dismal ending
To an otherwise bright New Years.
And, if I wasn’t sick at heart,
That might just bring me tears.

That is – it might have.

If my body weren’t raw from every skin flake
If my bones weren’t like glass, just asking to break
If my jaw didn’t jangle all loose on its hinges
If my throat wasn’t sewn shut by two hundred stitches
If my scalp wasn’t pared right down to the skull
If stones weren’t what make my kidneys so full
If oxygen didn’t cause allergies
If standing too long didn’t contuse my knees –
My ribs are shrunk
My muscles gunk
My teeth are cracked
My nerves all jacked
Holes for ears
Shedding beard
Drooling nose
Seven toes –
The list only grows
The more New Years that show.

So, I’m spending New Year’s in the E.R.
Since my life’s ceased seven times –
Stumbling down an uphill climb
That could give way on a dime –
It’s been like this for far too long
That death would be sublime.
So, pardon thee,
It seems to me
To worry for a New Year
Before it’s on the fritz
Pales before anticipation
For when my heart inevitably-

---

---

I came downtown to N’Awlins
To fire off the N’Year
But found it wasn’t quite the place
That Mem’ry makes it appear.
This ain’t no Princess and the Frog,
This ain’t no La-La Jazz-land,
Harry Connick’s got it wrong
‘Bout this old N’Awlins!
Papa Noel
Fled swampy Hell
Ruined by drink and drugs-o;
The beggars sheet
On every street
And the rich puke up their guts-o.
So stay away!
You’re bound to pay
To make it what you dreamt-o;
Or else you find youself knee-deep
In a N’Awlins New Year shit-hole!

I came to N’Awlins, upriver,
And fancied it Jamaica;
The weed and coke keep it afloat –
Oh, the places that they take ya!
To shacks and packs of tourist traps – Hack artists trail ya, bawlin’ –
There are no bands, just freelance hands
Who toot-toot for N’Awlins!
The folks at Preservation Hall
Play their own funerals daily
While tourists tip them cigarettes
And fall asleep quite gayly
Halloween’s
The time to be
Passed out in the streets-o
Since this is not the tight-knit town
You imagined on the bayou.

N’Awlins, I like to say,
Though only tourists talk that way –
Those who ain’t been here before
Never seen stores that only sell cork
Nor penis-shaped lollipops
Nor Mama’s discount voodoo shops –
The whole city is one big sham
Left from years it earned that glam
(though we can’t act like it’s the only offender;
L.A. has also gone through one big upender).
New Orleans is old, it’s trash, it’s done,
And it takes inebriation to have any fun.

I walked through Armstrong Park
When it was dimming, close to dark
And witnessed it abandoned –
Overgrown with weeds and dreams
Tangled up in isolation –
A stamp of times gone by.

A homeless man rode through the park,
Metal on concrete
(his front tire was missing),
To join his fellows sleeping under the lights
Of the main public library.
Seeing that, riding the bus back from a ghost tour,
Took all poetry out of my form.
So now I stop rhyme and rhythm
To flatly state that New Orleans has lost both –
By cutting the crap, we realize that
We like to delude ourselves
Into thinking the sparkle’s still there
Since it was there once,
But now no more.
A raging lunatic

Her flabby folds flapping with fury
Called my mother a bitch
And a piece of shit
Because we were taking a carriage tour
And she thought the horse
Was undergoing a sort of slavery.
How blissfully lost in an illusion one must be
To worry about extremist ideas
Of captivity
When New Orleans holds its rotting people in bondage
Without holding them in any expectations at all
As they hold out for a bygone dream
Swept up in Hurricanes –
A mix of drink and disaster –
Spat out on the curbs
Where misery dwells
Like that enormous theatre of boundless potential
Destined to ruin by location alone.
Or those twin abandoned hospital with terrible stories
Destined to ruin by character alone.

It’s easy to forget how new the year is
When you celebrate it so close to death
Or in a town where the only thing New about it
Is the next ailment or disease that kicks the glittering corpse
Of what once was Green and Gold New Orleans.

---