by James Webb
It’s another Christmas. I begin to suffer from festive deja vu around now. I walk through town, past the same pop-up stalls and window displays that I saw last year. I sit in front of the TV, wrapping presents, trying to remember if I did exactly this same thing last year, Read more
There were no lights, no holly and the ivy;
no red-breasted robin to sing in festivity;
no cheer of any sort to warm the cold winters;
no berry red Santa bringing sacks of presents,
only blood red legionaries, bringing Pax (with blades)
and the hungry hoping that it wouldn’t snow.
And after all no ear did hear his coming,
because we only listen to music that we like,
and no eye did witness the raging storm
of heaven contained within tiny feet and hands,
for sometimes the first line of a poem
is best when it can only be whispered.
So into this absent-minded world of winter
(that tells itself lies to keep the dark dreams at bay),
came a mustard seed shaped Christmas,
that didn’t end with an angel or a star on a tree,
and the hat that was worn for this main event
you wouldn’t get from pulling any crackers.
And into this absent-minded world of winter
(that tells itself lies to keep the dark dreams at bay),
how silently, how silently,
the wondrous truth bomb is dropped,
and God imparts to human hearts
the blessings of dark dreams stopped.
There are those who think it odd,
that you came as man and not as God.
A God would make things right
with shows of power, glory and might.
A God would shake the stage,
smiting evil-doers with holy rage.
A God, you see, will get things done.
A baby can’t. He needs his mum.
A baby is no use to us;
a baby screams and makes a fuss.
A baby doesn’t clear up mess,
solve problems, or bring progress.
But as for us, we’re not so hot,
we’re babies too, don’t pretend we’re not.
We need to scream, need a nappy,
we need our toys to make us happy.
We haven’t grown up in years,
so only a baby could share our tears.
We’re still learning how to crawl,
so I’m just thankful you came at all.
