Certain Poor Shepherds
A Christmas poem between two worlds
Through streetlamp pools,
and snowflake swarms,
glide numb and frigid feet.
Green glow of yule,
red blossom bows,
warm carols ringing sweet.
Just off the main,
down alleys dark,
the burg’s forgotten souls
lie huddled in
their wraps too thin,
adrift in tides of cold.
No shopping rush,
no trimming scene,
no pageant breaks the drone.
But steady howl
and longest night
creep closer to the bone.
Joy to the World
belongs to those
tucked inside chapel doors,
away from grime,
stiff matted hair,
and seeping, stinking sores.
Yet hope resides
in kettle plinks,
those heralds of goodwill.
Word spreads the news
of place and time
where one may have their fill.
The morn arrives,
the kind hearts flock
to set the feast in place.
Two strange worlds meet
o’er tables full
for first time face to face.
Let not those eyes
escape our minds
so often hid from sight;
take them with you
as you head home;
think of them christmas night.
