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