Certain Poor Shepherds

A Christmas poem between two worlds

Photo by Ev on Unsplash

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