A Christmas Poem

When you put yor fingers in the chinks
And pull up the faceplate
To feel the gears and cogs,
The smooth wood cold metal,
Everything becomes mysterious.
You finally see what was not there before:
The Love that always was beyond the spherical
Whose gift is of the purest mournful beauty,
Like midnight snow on the fir trees
Or violins on E string
Then you can smell the damp earth of ancient barns and cobble streets
And blood from the holly leaf fingers.
While the crackling flames become portals to elder days and times foretold

The Wishblows

There, in a meadow of lush green vitality
The bald, gray men
Stood in the absence of their dreams
Like stone columns of regret rising from an emerald sea
They strive on as dim reminders of vibrant voids.

And away on the wind
Passions languidly soar,

As quiet parachutes of writhing ambition
Floating forcefully to the earth
In free fall, reeling from blows of rain, and smoggy gusts.
Or, they will purposefully flee
Planting themselves healthy

In far off fields of imagination

Landscapes of golden deception
Never remembering the bald men
Turning from gray to brown-
To black