Santa arrived needing help ...

that Christmas Eve as I scrambled down the darkened stairs

into a lighted kitchen, awake and believing it Christmas morn,

to see my dad putting together the gas station

with its working lift and doors that opened,

what I’d asked for that afternoon on Santa’s lap

at the Sears and Roebuck, had seen in their Christmas catalog,

pouring over it and marking what I wanted most;

but my mother intercepted me, too late, to take me by the hand

back up the stairs and into bed, not a word exchanged

about my father helping Santa, nor, held fast,

the candy cane taken from my stocking hung there

at the top of the stairs, for Santa had come,

as he had every year, and every year since,

even now as I, like my father, help him out

with doll houses, bikes and wagons, “assembly required”

on Christmas Eve by elves and fathers pitching in,

caught by children, eager and creeping early

down from their rooms, awake and believing.

Merry Christmas,

"and on Earth, peace, goodwill to men."

A Christmas Poem, 2015

Over Bethlehem, Santa’s sleigh slows down

and the jangle of harness bells ceases

on this holy night, the stars brightly shining,

a night to celebrate a savior’s birth;

but that savior never came, some would claim,

just a baby born of low birth, from Nazareth,

too poor for a proper birth, nurses and attendants,

a child born in a stable among the animals, bleating and cooing,

and the first visitors but the shepherds, common laborers,

not men of influence, and the wise men, too,

scholarly men following a star, some cosmic oddity foretelling,

just a baby, forgotten in his growing up, no savior at all,

only tales told of an immaculate birth and questionable lineage;

but in Bethlehem, Santa’s sleigh slows down and the jangle

of harness bells ceases in homage to a savior born

this day in the city of David, heralded by the angels

on this holy night celebrated, the stars brightly shining,

just as Santa slows and the bells cease over the ancient

cities of Ur and Lumbini and Mecca, homage to saviors born

on holy nights like this, Abraham, Siddhartha Gautama, Muhammad,

led by a light of faith serenely beaming on a new

and glorious morn, a grateful chorus, sweet hymns of joy

raised in a weary world seeking Peace, seeking Him.

---------------

Dona Nobis Pacem

Snow

Snow is quiet weather --

soundless as it falls, drifting down

in a slow silent spiral, these single flakes,

intricate lacework spun in the cold air of winter

and wind-blown, slow crystals singly drifting,

alone and quiet; and a soft hush descends,

gently settling on our lives --

Snow, the quiet weather.

Autumn Rain Softly Falling

Late autumn rain, softly falling, is cold and raw,

chilling us “to the bone,” old farmers claim,

and driving us back inside

to warm ourselves by a fire, wrapped in fleece and wool

and clutching tight a cup of coffee, acrid,

hot, and strong, a quiet time to reflect,

looking inward, to prepare us for the winter months ahead,

long winter months here at the lake, silent,

now, save for a soft autumn rain, cold and raw.