#625
A few wreaths
some lights and ribbon
and like that the spirit arrives.
There’s something about
Christmas in New York City,
the snip of cold,
the tree’s on the corners
a dust of frost, sprinkled sugary
smells from park vendors,
the surplus of smiles
and kindnesses,
charitable bells outside churches,
and packed department stores
decorated in deep red.
Sentiment is strong,
and despite the weather
the weeks feel
a little warmer.
#626
Old Noel,
you’re but
around the corner.
Somewhere along
my old tomorrows
i convinced myself
that you never mattered,
but today, tucked in
the coze of a short winter afternoon,
your snowy whispers are a little sweeter
your promises are a little more convincing
and i think i may have found a dash
of that spirit, the one spicing seasonal songs
decorating streets and homes,
the welcomes of winter,
alive all within.
Old Noel,
it’s take a long time to admit,
the light your bring
to the joyful part you play,
may my gratitude be my gift,
and may you never stop giving.
#627
The New Year is coming
and i wish i’d stayed,
in place, at home, happy, and the same,
i feel the changes comings
as the world keeps turning,
and no matter how i dig my heels
i age, i grey, i ache,
pen to paper i plan promises,
i sketch, i plot, i plea,
last year was somewhat successful,
but i’m really trying to change back,
back to the younger me,
the one a little more hopeful,
the one the shone a little bit brighter,
the one chasing your midnight kiss,
the one that stayed,
happily ever after.
#628
Oh harken, the trivial trinkets,
the ribbons, the wrapping,
the thoughts and the shopping,
this bastarding day, oh,
how i struggle to connect,
until those twinkles,
and wrinkled smiling frames arise
above steaming mugs,
hours wrapped in laughter,
with hugs, a hand
from those loved,
worth marching side by side
along parading saints as they pass,
up and over another long winter.
#629
i think the
snow sodden streets
finally might mean
something. The suburban
cage is cultivating change,
recognized normalities
become vibrant specialities,
maybe not to high nose of
the continent,
maybe not to those
that love to look down,
but, atop our mountain,
blanketed in snow,
a deep culture emerges,
a culture of kindness, of care,
friend’s homes become haunts,
halls, and havens, sorrow and
struggles melt to communal cheer,
maybe the holidays weren’t the
greatest i could imagine,
but far from the worst- worse still,
while i may hate to admit, is
how much i might prefer it.
Thanks for joining! Find poems through out the week on my instagram @monsieurwrite
Don’t forget to check out the poems being recited on The Write Stuff podcast!
Take care, call your family, tell them you love them.
wazoo!
-Mr. Write