Joy requires one to be awake, Adjusting the heart's ambience to bright. Some prefer the dark, as is their right, On grounds of agony, and to forsake Not only bliss, but all that's blessed by light.
Mothers are the place that we call home. On them we rest our heads and close our eyes. There's no one else who grants the same soft peace, happiness, contentment, sweet release, erasing righttime tears with lullabies, restoring the bright sun that makes us bloom.
Halloween wraps fear in innocence, as though it were a lightly sour sweet. Let terror, then, be turned into a treat.
On Hanukkah, the first dark night, Light yourself a candle bright. I'll you, if you will me invite To dance within that gentle light.
As spirits roam the neighborhoods at night, Let loose upon the Earth till it be light.
By day each soul must walk within its shadow. Only night can make us whole again.
On Halloween, witches come true; Wild ghosts escape from dreams. Each monster dances in the park.
Hobgoblins know the proper way to dance: Arms akimbo, loopy legs askew, Leaping into darkness with delight, Lusting for the ecstasy of fright, Open to the charm of horrors new.
Eight days the light continued on its own: A miracle, they say, but not more so Than ordinary lives of flesh and bone, Consuming wicks burned ashen long ago.
December finds himself again a child Even as he undergoes his age. Cold and early darkness now descends, Embracing sanctuaries of delight. More and more he stares into the night, Becoming less and less concerned with ends, Emblem of the innocent as sage Restored to wonder by what he must yield.
Love of life at times requires death
Christmas is a time of little time. How we get there is a mystery. Racing madly mall-to-mall, we climb Into fields of sunlit harmony. Shopping, cooking, clearing walks and yards, Trimming house and tree while working, too; Making phone calls, wrapping, writing cards, As all worn out we do what we must do So that this day of joy might joy renew.
Only night can make us whole again.
Given angel's wings, where might you fly? In what sweet heaven might you find your love? Unwilling to be bound, where might you move, Lost between the wonder and the why?
Sixty years is cause enough to sing In celebration of a gentle life! To the mother and the wife, Taking pleasure in what love might bring, Yearning for what's worth the treasuring.
...A fuel-less flame is nothing but a wraith, However wrought, if unsustained by passion.
Angels are quite ample cause to cry.
