I. the world is white and
falling and blowing. behind
the permeable wall of white
are tall, bare trees with arms and
fingers rising to the clouds
to beckon the sun.

II. the world is white and
falling and blowing — behind
the permeable
wall of white are tall trees with arms
rising, beckoning the sun.

III. the world is all white;
a blackbird flies through branches
behind white curtains.

A year ago, I opened the sliding,
glass door walked out onto the
balcony, leaned on the railing and
said hi to neighbor Nancy who
bobbed all by herself in the pool.

Today, I look out the window and
can barely see across the street
for the snow falling strong and
steady.

A year ago, I put on my jogging
shoes, left the condo in my
shorts and jogged slowly on the
trail paralleling Rt. 51 on my
way to the underpass and Piestewa
Peak and the Phoenix Mountain
Preserve.

Today, as I continue to look out the
window I am hoping for four inches
of snow to fall because then the
snow-plower will come. If not, I
will be the snow-plower and I won’t
be wearing jogging shoes and shorts.

A year ago, I was already looking
forward to returning the next year.

Today, I’m already looking forward
to next year, leaning over the rail-
ing and saying hi to neighbor Nancy
bobbing all by herself in the pool.

What a difference a year makes.

Star in the sky.
Probably not.
Three wise men.
Probably not.
Bethlehem.
Probably not.
Shepherds.
Probably not.
Angels singing.
Probably not.
No room.
Probably not.
Trip to Egypt.
Probably not.
Actually, just “no”
to all of the above.
All for prophesy
fulfilled in
a child from
Nazareth
who would
reveal
cosmic glory
(Star and Angels),
universal love
(Wise Men
from the East
and lowly
shepherds),
son of David
(Bethlehem)
liberation of
God’s people
by Moses
(trip to and
from Egypt).
So, did it
happen?
Actually, “yes”
to all
of the above.

The powers that be
from Cain to
Constantine to
Charlemagne
bow to Thee…
temporarily.

Then,
the powers that be
scatter folks who flee
over land and sea.

Cain, Constantine
and Charlemagne
take Your name
in vain
as have all the powers
down through history…

except Peter, Paul,
Francis
and all others you call
and who remained
and remain
true to Thee,
and your
self-sacrificing
Divinity.

Glory be to Thee,
Jesus,
Humble Child
of Galilee,
and Spirit of
Eternity.

Just after midnight on Christmas day
he lifts his head from the computer
where he was creating a poem to
listen to the glorious sounds of
college students and sees blacks,
browns, yellows and whites singing
beautifully the various religious
traditions of the season. He had just
seen a broadcast of his alma mater’s
Christmas Vespers and the music
sung beautifully by the mostly white
college students was nice and ever
so properly parochial and, to his mind,
so completely out of touch with the
beautiful inclusivity of Jesus’ message,
ironically sung by the music school
of a state university. And while he
likes Merry Christmas with it’s
nostalgic touch, really, Happy Holidays
is better, if for no other reason than,
it means Happy Holy Days — for all.

Christmas Eve, the holy time,
the blessed time and I’m
having to hit the mute button
on the remote because I
can’t take all the appeal
to jealousy, envy, covetous-
ness on TV commercials not
to mention the mayhem and
murders on programs and
previews of upcoming shows
this Christmas Eve. And
Jesus just shakes his head
and wanders off among the
dispossessed and disen-
francised and illegal
immigrants as his parents
were that first blessed
Christmas Eve, that holy
time, that blessed time
and all I can think to sing
this blessed Christmas Eve
is not Deck the Halls or
the most sad song of all,
Have Yourself a Merry Little
Christmas but Kyrie Eleison,
Christ have mercy, over and
over and over again through
Christmas day and into eternity.

The rich are feeling comfortable
For the moment, only the moment,
Because as an heir to a fortune once
Said, “It’s never enough.” Those
Somewhere in the spectrum called
Middle class are confused trying to
Be optimistic but doubting what
They are being told will actually
Come to pass. Only the poor know.
Is that why they are called Blessed?

Someone, apparently with
some justifying social science
credential, once said that
Americans lie about a hun-
dred times a day. I thought,
“Wow! Really? A hundred
times a day? That is a lot,
so much.” Needless to say, I
had my doubts. Years later
with the (p)resident in the
White House, I just ruminated,
“Yup. Guess so.”

The snow crunches under foot
and sounds like peanut brittle
sounds inside your head when
you bite down. The snow becomes
slippery under foot as peanut
brittle becomes slippery on
the tongue before and after
the crunch. I avoid stepping on
the slippery, icy snow for
apparent reasons. Like my chocolate
labs, I used to bite newly fallen
snow. Because I’ve been using peanut
brittle as a simile, I now think
having a piece of peanut brittle
to lick and crunch would be nice
just for me. I can’t remember the
last time I ate peanut brittle or
newly fallen snow, but I can taste
them both, right now — even all
mixed together.

Leaders give praise,
show appreciation,
work for others,
demure, while this
(p)resident gathers
congressional syco-
phants who fawn over
him, praise him, laud
him, bow to him, kiss
his butt and lick his
boots. Abused children
stick close to their
abusers, hugging them,
hoping and praying that
the abuser will not abuse
again: “I love you, love
you, love you, daddy.
Don’t hurt me, please,”
and how much daddy loves
to hurt them. “We love
you so very much, Mr.
(p)resident. You are the
greatest (p)resident ever.
Please, please, Mr.
(p)resident, (don’t hurt
us) we love you so, so
very much,” as they cling
to his pant legs, kiss
his butt and lick his
boots, and how much he
loves to hurt them.