A Visit From the Distant Past

TheMagicRealist.com

Just a while before Christmas and what’s to be said?
Should one write down all matter expelled from one’s head?
No stockings are hung; there’s no chimney here.
It’s not really by choice, yet perhaps I don’t care.
Christmas time is for sports and for people and stuff.
It is not time for assholes who’ve not loved enough.
Am I really a loner? Well, let me just check…
Some friendlies on Facebook… no hick on my neck.
…A few cordial neighbors who smile when I say
Merry Christmas.” If that’s all, it’s better that way.
Dope man called me today; hadn’t talked in a while.
He was lonely… just wanted to hear a real smile.
…A few spicy boomers who meet for a brawl
Most Tuesdays, yet for them, I’m always on call.
…And this site that I keep like a mildewed mad hatter
May someday reveal what the hell was the matter
That nature allowed such a creature as me
To express in a way maybe few people see
As verse that is worthy of scant inhalation
Among those acquainted with thought transmigration.
Now, the story here (There should be one, I know.),
Is that of another who lived long ago
The son of a duo who knew only good
They raised him up rightly as all parents should
Yet, much wiser than man, he knew well all along
That the kingdom within guides the soul with its song.
His humble birth quite embedded in love…
His whole life is brilliant with light from above…
When caught in dilemma, I’m not proud to pray
And don’t care if others don’t see it that way.
As for cute Christmas cards and the business and bustle
To meet the clock’s tick in the mind like a muscle –
I don’t do that no more and I can’t recall last
I broke bread with my family for fear of the past
Seeping in where it does not or will not feel good
So, this cycle, again, I’m a howl in the wood.
How would Jesus have acted were he my big brother?
What a question to ask! With that said, here’s another:
Now seated in glory in heaven above
Can he show me the way of unspeakable love
In such a way when I sit down to write
I take note of this special silent night?
I have plenty to speak with no shame in the way.
Am I foolish for some of the things that I say?
Judge ye not, or be judged, is the way of the Cloth
It’s a paradox, though, like a flame to the moth
Where in judgment a writer has right to expound
On whatever infiltrates and feeds common ground.
So, enough of this nonsense; by now I’m quite bored.
I know that because I oft’ bore our dear Lord
With incessant pleading for help with my writing.
His humor and wisdom is ever inviting.
This practice is hot chicken soup for the heart
As I sit alone, cozy… not really apart
From all people worldwide and throughout all dimension,
To learn how to love is my greatest intention.

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