Now that we are on in years,
celebrations change and dwindle
to little remnants of tradition.
We are two stragglers
from life’s journey,
Left behind by the young,
No longer nurturing him,
yet tied to his well-being
even as we wait for his call.
I celebrate Yule not in our home,
but by imaging his joy beside a tree,
his exchange of gifts with her.
And I recall the first Christmas
with my husband, falling asleep together
under a mammoth tree filled with light.
We made ornaments for fun
and poverty didn’t matter.
I wrote a poem for him,
decorated with scenes of our life.
And now, we are too weary
to celebrate like that.
It is as if we pore through a box,
a ragged thing, dragged through time,
looking for souvenirs of joy
and memories of the life we had
when he was here.

squeezed into existence by the head – coughing out
my first words, with lungs choked with dust;
a body rhyming; to the rhythm of heartbeats against
a mother’s *****— eyes nourished by the vibrant
hues of this bewildering new realm.

in those nascent moments, my existence began shrouded
in shadows—the tunnel’s end merely a flicker; the stars ached
the skies cried their rain; on that eve, the wind exhaled the
essence of creation into my very skin.

so my skin ignited like a volcano, each limb ablaze with
fervour, the heat layering upon itself—yet still, the tantalizing
urge to step out caressed my feet.

Every sensation was a revelation; each experience felt like
a debut, devouring time as if it were the first taste of life—
longing for love swirling above me, a fire igniting my desire
for a pen, spiralling into infinity, as if it were all happening
for the very first time.

                              ...birth of a poet.

In every class,
Every place,
There is a child that's oddly quiet.
As the child grows up, they begin to change,
Growing more and more distant from reality.

They sit there emotionlessly,
Living their dream life in their own universe.
It's quite sad others can't see it.

Sometimes, imagination dissapears along with childhood innocence.
A child that can't play is no longer a child.
Some children are smarter than adults
That's why people belittle them.
They can't stand the thought of someone being superior to them.

Be a child as long as you can.
You'll regret it if you don't.

i am an inside child,
handles are red-hot
doors terrify me with
screams only i hear if i dare
breathe the fresh air
of scary eyes i am afraid.
mom, why am i not
normal why am i stuck
inside why am i a
hikikomori who
hides why do i cry if i try to
go outside?

I've not the arms to hold you
nor the heart to keep you warm
in spirit I am with you
to walk among the ruins
and watch your history burn
your face will always haunt me
as a fleeting moment passes
eyes that looked right through me
cradle so close to the grave

Lies ****.

Every lie said, cuts like a sword
Every lie believed, I die a little
I'm tormented for surely somewhere
A child tearfully compelled to lose his soul

Lord of life,
Lord of breeze, of warmth and softest light
Lord of song and answered cries
Lord of long days and sleepless nights

Lord of rest
Lord of this sacred space to reflect
Lord of this gifted stillness
I confess you caught my breath

Lord of promise
Lord who gifted this anointed child
Lord of mercy, of goodness
I weep in the sheen of this just-fed smile

I breathe a quiet celebration (lest they waken)
and marvel at this wondrous sight
I wonder at this crowning moment
and whisper thanks for this new life

I pledge my life to raise my child
to teach the wonders of your kingdom
I surrender now, done and done
and pray they grow in strength and wisdom

I thank you, Lord, for this new life
and wonder again in mid-elation
how Mary contained her cradled delight
while swaddling the first-born of your new creation