Michael Gregory: Third Day of Christmas | Earth Air Wood Water Fire
Too many missing from this year’s mailing list.
Looking back I’m humbled to remember
how many stupid things I’ve done and survived
Maura Ives: How an American magazine helped launch one of Britain’s favorite Christmas carols
Christina Rossetti’s ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’ didn’t begin life as a song, but being set to music helped it find fame.
Charles Davidson: Christmas Trees
TO THIS DAY I still possess the handmade Santa Claus that I cut out of lined poster board…
David Baker: Holiday Wish
a little peace, a touch of ease, another day
come round with steady light
Andrew McFadyen-Ketchum: Heaven-Fire
The boy is not my blood
Though “Son” is the only name I have for “He-
Who-Will-Dance-To-Just-About-Anything,”
Edna St. Vincent Millay: Recuerdo
We hailed, “Good morrow, mother!” to a shawl-
covered head,
And bought a morning paper which neither of us
read;
And she wept, “God bless you!” for the apples and
pears,
and we gave her all our money but our subway fares.
Patricia A. Nugent: Away from the Manger
Too late, I spotted Baby Jesus’ feet sticking out of Punkin’s mouth – snatched from the tabletop nativity scene. I flew across the room to rescue the Prince of Peace. Punkin took a big gulp, and Jesus disappeared down his gullet.
Frida Berrigan: A Christmas Confession
I’m Taking an Eco-Holiday From It All (and So Are My Kids)
Michael Simms: Satan and the Snowman
I don’t have relationships,
the old drunk explained
with surprising wisdom,
I take hostages.
Paul Christensen: The Leaden Hat of Fall
Once in a while the tufted sky would break open into dazzling radiance. I would often look up from my reading to behold a waterfall of fiery light, as if the Golden Fleece were hanging in a waterfall shedding all its precious minerals into the valley below.
Paul Christensen: Apocalypse Soon
We are outnumbered by countless other creatures, dwarfed by the complex imperial government of birds, by the subterranean empires of worms and grubs albino larva, moles, gophers, beetles with vast pincer jaws, by nomadic tribes of aphids and cutworms, by thread-like parasites that feast on my annabels in mid-summer, and of course, by the king of blood bandits, the Aedes aegypti mosquito that spawns in our lowland catchments and marshland.
Linda Parsons: Visitations
Everything seems to glow richer before first frost, a last hurrah before the ghostly breath passes over.