The world watches a grand-father clock, ticking.
I engage in frivolities, as the pendulum swings,
and the chimes repeat themselves.
I am bored past tears, cells, nerves, and sinews,
stuck in this world of wrappings and ribbons,
no deeper than the skin’s morality.
Cravings are paraded in every magazine,
on every television station, subliminally encoded,
and advertised on each internet site. I want to
walk circumspectly. But the things I would do,
I don’t do. Yes, mammon, still rules
with its gold and silver tinsel, exquisite ornamental lights.
Who is to blame for this orgy?
I strip myself to my ample bottom,
For the world must see: Christmas is about the Christ.
Who decapitated Christmas
left us with a fat-bearded mailman?
Who will visit the manger, making straw no stranger,
and sit with the lowly? Who will do the work of the cross
in this cross-eyed world, leaving his own comfort?
Bell-ringers ring hollow at this Hallowed time.
But God watches the world to bless Apostolic feet.

Alice Parris


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