Inception of conception a miraculous birth structured to guidelines of relative worth

Intrinsically fragile savagely brutal staying aloft seems so futile

Impacting their world with all their potential are they important or inconsequential?

Wrought by the hammers of eternal desire from beginning to end what will transpire?

Uniqueness in heart as well as in mind we are all the same one of a kind.

Christmas Past
By: Kristie Hunger

Anticipation all year long.
January I was good.
By February I was doing wrong.

The big day would eventually come.
I'd be hauled to the mall for new shoes and a dress.
Then cry in fear when put upon a big red and white dressed gnome.

What do you want for Christmas? He'd ask.
I couldn't remember that list, I was too distressed.
Then I'd be done, my turn was over, the whole line Mom would whisk me past.

We would work the whole month for that big night.
The year I was the Innkeeper, we found out I was allergic to burlap.
At the top of my little lungs I sang 'all was calm all was bright'.

Round a yon what? What's a virgin momma? And why are virgins round?
I got to be Mary one year too, rode in on a paper mache donkey Dad made.
Blue was the color for virgins that year, Mary had no lines, I couldn't utter a sound.

After the play, when we'd all sung our loudest and best
We got a bag with an orange an apple, some uncracked nuts and no candy.
I'd be anxious to leave, Mom would talk to everyone, 'oh mrs something, what a nice dress'.

On the way home were lights on houses but we never saw snow.
We'd have tamales from our mailman,queso and, sausage,
Eggnog and cookies my Granny would decorate with a half cherry for a bow.

I'd come in to presents under the tree, more than before.
I always wanted to stay home from church, to catch the man in the act.
In the morning would be stuffed stockings and the main attraction, a barbie on a skateboard.

The rest of the time was filled with traditions from Germany,
I was taught the big family tradition; how to wiggle my ears..
We'd have coffee and tea at three, play cards with my Grandpa
Then I'd make another list for next time, and start being good for another year.

When I write good poetry on the computer,
my cooking skills take a nosedive;
my eating flies higher than ever.
Starvation is static for the moment;
gluttony is running wild!
With green animosity drowned in a sea of silence,
forgiveness comes to life in glorious music.

The geese are back.

I can hear them

in the darkness of my morning.

I pull myself from the safety

of the small of my wife's back

smooth and warm, her pale skin almost

glowing in the night that will becoming morning.

Almost.

Almost glowing. Almost morning. Almost safe.

I sip coffee from my blue willow cup. Delicate taste of hazelnut.

My gut growls dictation- always the boss.

I cast pennies for the day

spilling from the page in solid and broken lines.

The Madonna watches me. Always watches me.

From a velodrada candle. A 32 cent Christmas stamp: Sano di Pietro.

The ghost of lemongrass and pinon haunting my desk.

Always haunted.

The geese are back.