Gifts of Love From Some Poets Around the World~

 —Poetry by Lynn White, Nolcha Fox, 

Joe Nolan, Stephen Kingsnorth, 

and Michael H. Brownstein
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan, Nolcha Fox, and Medusa

 

 

 ROBIN
—Lynn White, Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales

Its trill has the effervescence of Bucks Fizz.
And not just as a morning wake-up call,
but an all-day-long pick-me-up.
And it’s not just for Christmas
but available season after season.
Such longevity
in such a small bird.
Such year-round year cheer
from dawn to dusk.



(First pub. in Flights of the Dragonfly, September 2021)

 

 

 

—Image Courtesy of Nolcha Fox

 

 
GRINCH GIRL
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Christmas is a painful day.
I hate parties, chattering.
Lights hurt my sorry migraine eyes.
Dogs barking carols make me scream.

I hate parties, chattering.
I wear lampshades on my head.
Dogs barking carols make me scream.
Give me aspirin or I’ll die.

I wear lampshades on my head.
Lights hurt my sorry migraine eyes.
Give me PJs or I’ll die.
Christmas is a painful day.

 

 

 

 —Image Credit Sarah Whiley 

(Courtesy of Nolcha Fox)

SUNSET BEACH
—Nolcha Fox

The sun sinks in fatigue into the pulsing waves.
The sand sucks in today’s debris of

Christmas sales and traveling to family
and the decorating to be done

before the Sun is born, a babe rushed by
as we demolish too much food and wrapped-up gifts.

The sun and waves and sand are witnesses to all
we’ve lost in search of memories we’ll trash.

Still, Sunset Beach waits for our steps to harmonize
with all the wonder in the world on Christmas Day.
 

 

 

EQUALITY AND IDENTITY
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

We are one
But not the same.

“The Father and I
Are One,” said Jesus,
“But the Father is Greater than I.”

Equivalence
Is not Equality
And neither is identity.

At the level of subatomic particles
There must be some essence
In-between electrons
That holds it all together
To form our human dream
Where friends turn into demons
Every twenty years,
Building battlements,
Swearing oaths,
Donning uniforms,
Marching out to meet
Their enemies.

One side is not the same
As the other.
One side must be good,
The other, evil.

In our essence
We are one,
But not the same.
Equality is not identity.

The reasons
We turn upon each other
Are difficult to say.

 

 

 

 

THIS CHRISTMAS
—Joe Nolan

This Christmas,
I wish you bliss.

Not just a little twinge,
But a steady stream
That overflows
And never ends.

A surfeit of bliss
Emerging from its crevice
To overflow your mind
Leaving your attachment
To all your pain, behind.

This Christmas,
I wish you Bliss!

 

 

 

 “ . . . soon joined by foreign bodies’ blood . . .”

STOCKING FILLERS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

The tangerine was not the prize—
except in being no surprise—
as in toe, stocking, every year
along with bubble bath sachet,
and sugar mouse, string tailed I fear.

Just like the presents on the tree—
all fripperies, so not that dear—
but that enabled all to join
in inexpensive sibling gifts
hung on that tree each day in turn.

There was an understanding then
of pocket money presents bought
so not the value of the gift
received, but of the atmosphere,
that star atop, not fairy wings.

We learnt of giving, not receipt,
that whitewashed branch that was our green,
intermingled, old lantern lights,
that stable, olive, built beneath,
for we were trained nativity.

Our day was joined by aliens,
the foreign students of Dad’s school,
remembered for their influence
as strangers from their eastern lands,
the wise as foreign caravan.

And what a privilege it was—
both tangerine, pink sugar mice—
to share our stockings with those folk
so far from home, hard journey come,
no myrrh or frankincense, less gold.

That olive babe of Palestine—
now under rubble, homeland crib—
then seen by rebel shepherds, flawed,
who failed in strict fulfilment, Law,
but freed, religion, hushed that noise.

They heard the angels’ sing about,
soon joined by foreign bodies’ blood,
who also knew angelic throng.
So listen now, if label free
to native truth, excluding none.

 

 

 

 

A GIFT OF LOVE
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO

No snow came that winter, we stepped outside in shorts, and wondered about Santa. No one knew he was busy, not with gifts, but hope and peace.

A week before Christmas, 2024, a glow covered the planet. Santa came early. When the world woke, the children were different—they volunteered to help the homeless, brought joy to hospitals, fully funded UNICEF, big block stores offered free-to-all days and

billionaires gave away their money. Russia left the Ukraine and Israel gave land to the Palestinians.

December 25, 2024, we celebrate that Great Christmas, a world holiday, the Victory of Christmas, 2024.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Maybe Christmas, the Grinch thought, doesn’t come from a store.

—Dr. Seuss

___________________

—Medusa, thanking our poets today for their poetic gifts of love. And wishing you a peaceful, blissful holiday season—wherever you are in the world—including our Jewish friends who, beginning this evening, celebrate Hanukkah~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For future poetry happenings in
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