Fusion, A New Year Hymn

The 7th Day of Christmas10885571_10204524793351781_5679912215840861996_n

Leave behind all that served,
a heart burst with love
used up, as it should be,
open and ready to be
filled once more

Stay voices that called out
to raise and crush,
for you are a new hymn,
the wren will defer to
your chickadee winter song,
a hint of Phoebe spring

Let hardened blows
cover in snow, leave them
forgotten, iced under where
hurt cannot escape, your muscled
spirit secure in constancy

Abandon vacant pods, hewn branches,
exhausted beds, carry with you only
wisdom gleaned, germination
unfolding a newborn empathy

All you were has crumbled
into earthly marl, open the gate,
no fear in choosing, for within you burns
a light for any passage, a light to
blaze a new you

A simple deviation
one foot in front of the other
through a yawning threshold
into unimaginable Being,
a fusion into One

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Author’s Note:

Happy New Year!

And gratitude to all those who graced my past year and made it shine, especially Stefan Andre Waligur, Kathleen Gorman, Scott Jenkins, Marcy Baruch, Kathleen E. Moore, Steve Bross, Mary Lynn Greene, and Niki Kessinger, and of course, my boys, Leroy, Dad, and Bremen. Without you, my light would not shine and my heart would not be overflowing.

Stephen

Stephen

The 3rd Day of Chirstmas

A fire burns low, blue hot as shiny spandexed
riders speed past. A tin bears sufficient fuel,
warms the cold, bides time until the traffic ebbs
near the river winding through the city. Here this

tea party offers no scones or steaming earl grey.
There is no crown for the guest of honor, no guest
of honor at all. The music of the wren tucked
safely high into a corner of the bridge, an
afternoon’s diversion. As the flame dies out,

laughter barrels across an austere night with stories
wide. A bottle passes from hand to hand, sharing
the only gift to warm stiff bones and hearts isolated
in the chill. Stephen’s crown a touchstone. The wren

who nests with family dear a paragon. His martyr’s
words ring through my days, make room for
those forgotten. I pack my box this Boxing Day,
not with trinkets, but with his humanity to be
freely given away.

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Author’s Note:

Well, the best of intentions get sideswiped sometimes.

I am re-posting a poem from last year’s 12 Days of Christmas poetry project. I hope to be back on track later today for the 4th Day of Christmas.