Poems for our season by Helette and Adrien

Helette Gagnon

 

HALLOWED GROUND

Jesus lies on my front lawn                   

Middle Eastern roots

exposed, shrivelled,

bone frosted…look…

 

Crown of thorns askew,

sandy hair dishevelled,

hemp sandals lost,

loin cloth in tatters.

His hands and feet

wine coloured gashes.

 

What will the neighbours say?

Test, curse, warning, blessing?

 or, Magic realism?

I feel the Lions lurking.

 

I could extend a vinegary sponge,

an olive branch,

find ways to repent or

play it festive with strings

of multi-coloured lights.

 

Maybe, I should wrap Him in

burlap, let the earth receive

let the season bury as it pleases.

 

Instead, veiled behind curtains,

I stand alert watching for a Resurrection.

 

All I need is a nod or a wink

to take this Bearded Wonder in.

                                                                by Helette Gagnon

**********

and from Adrien Helm,

Adrien Helm

 

 Christmas Memory

              by Adrien Helm

 

A touch of Italian Renaissance

The plaster figures appeared

From Christmas-drunken

Impulse of my Manhattan

Working father – store window

Display transfixing his

Passing glance and capturing

Some part of his wallet!

My mother’s eyes lit up –-

Her imagination surged—

Where to put?  How to style?

A wooden berry basket

Became the stable,

Hay was found,

Boughs arranged,

The sideboard

Magically swept Eastward

From commonplace buffet

To holiday display.

Shepherds crowded

Stunned and musical,

People hurried by, or

Turned their backs—

Animals knelt beside

The penitent innkeeper,

Come to worship the fuss.

The empty manger only

Peopled on Christmas Eve –

Magi lurked in the wings

Awaiting Epiphany’s cue.

 

One Christmas Day we left

A candle lit as we fled

To church, four spirit-drenched

Children in tow.

Returned to find

The crèche a little singed

From careless fire

Less than holy. Mary’s

Flowing blue and serene mien

As tarnished as Cinderella’s;

Joseph very much worse for wear

Than casual fatherhood imposed.

The Babe survived and I,

Ever on the look out for

“Back ups,” scour tag sales

To people this family treasure.

It sprawls just now

Within my sight. A fancier

Structure, complete with stalls

Replaced the charred basket.

As I bring the figures

From their tissue nest each year

I look into their eyes and

Let their gaze hold mine,

Focusing again across the years

Of this Christmas memory.

 

                                                                        January 2019