Childhood Christmases are often the metaphorical benchmark for our present Christmases, and that won’t do. The magic of opening a package under the tree on Christmas morning is for little children; it won’t work for us and it’s not meant to.
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That star that led us to a stable long ago /
And now bathes our souls with its silver glow
We bring our gifts to Mary’s fair-born Child: /
A pen, a broom, a book, a welding rod, /
A wrench, a mop, some papers neatly filed – /
Our daily labors offered up to God /
A collection of poems by Lawrence “Mack in Texas” Hall (Rated G) A Cargo Cult Conversations are about packagesPackages considered, packages orderedPackages delivered and packages stolenPackages as the cosmic medium of exchange Conversations are about packagesPackages that give meaning to our livesPackages pinched by plundering porch piratesPackages snatched by maskers in masks What is it […]
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This summer someone near and dear to me gave me one of those clever computerized watches to replace my classic (old) $8 Timex. Karen-the-Watch features a big screen onto which I can easily sweep dozens of different faces. I picked the one most like my minimalist (old) Timex…
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Dear Lord, Thank you for this day /
I ask you that I may /
Pray it, Play it, And Work it /
Most to your pleasure
Intrusive and dangerous technology has come a long way since Maxwell Smart’s shoe phone…
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Don’t forget the napkins, set the plates so /
Upon the tablecloth with its delicate lace /
Silverware all in an orderly row /
And never, ever neglect to say grace
For a child, Thanksgiving is sort of like Christmas only without any toys. It’s interesting enough: lots of relatives come to dinner, and there’s turkey and “the good china,” but without Santa Claus and toys it’s not that big a thing.
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There is music around the house today: /
The old refrigerator hums a tune from Frozen /
Handel might envy the washer’s Water Music /
And the off-center dryer waltzes Blue Danube
Sometimes I meet some other old man /
And we ask each other where we were /
Memories – some of them surprisingly good /
Others dark enough /
And we were so young /
Sunflowers are easy enough – the petals turn brown /
And the base is yellow, or better yet /
When in the heat of summer birds and squirrels /
Present themselves in your garden as dinner guests
A rustic dilettante, all ready to flirt
In his old khakis and a chambray shirt
Old boots, old gloves, a mattock or rake to wield
A boulevardier of row crops in the field
Tiffany-Cherise Snark-Ponsonby (Tiffy)
And Terence-Rock Smith-Hoogerwerf (Rocky)
Married and hyphenated their hyphens
Much of being is chaos; we try to shape it
Into meaning, not artificial constructs
But the meaning that is, already is
But tumbled through the weeds and brokenness
Children are the truest arbiters of art.
Finding beauty in the unlikeliest things:
A bottle cap, a rusted auto part.
Metal washers, broken glass, cigar rings
The hay balers are out early in the fields
Headlights outshining late September stars
The din of diesel engines shaking the world
I don’t miss working on the farm at all
A votive candle is good, and prayers are good
And those for whom the candle is lit are good
Especially when they feel they are not good
Because they are His gifts, and they are good
You are a valued customer
No public restrooms
We don’t carry parts for that
Restrooms out of order
Thus saith the comma-less yellow plastic bags
Fitted to the gasoline pumps of the nation
Where men are free from fuel and punctuation…
