Messianic Alms

painting by Ed Knippers

 Messianic Alms

“Give, if thou can, an alms; if not then a sweet

and gentle word.”--Robert Herrick.

The wild wind whispers it,

to the shadow tribe,

to empty pueblos, 

to the tundra, forming words,

with ice crystal and moss,

but I don’t see it on billboards,

or on the sides of buildings,

or hidden in ipod text,

only finding counterfeit cheer,

as three-year olds tell me

there is no Santa Claus.

Carols sound like elevator music,

holiday commercials seem absurd,

as spokespersons gather, mingle,

enjoying Christmas meals, with

no one wearing masks, fake smiles,

unrealistic laughing, the same

old Hallmark roppa-doppa,

which is just garish lipstick

on Death’s mouth,

as hospitals fill to capacity,

having to gerry-rig triage

and urgent care units

in their parking garages;

as rented refrigerated trailers

line up behind the sad edifices

like white knight morgues,

as criminals are set free

because Covid and Crime

has overpopulated all the prisons,

as our youth still stand in harm’s way

in too many Middle East war zones,

some in urban firefights,

sitting in bloody corners

holding their severed limb

under their arm

like a holiday ham,

conversing with a severed head

of the kid who stood behind them

bitching about the Swanson dinner

awaiting them at Christmas;

dry cracked lips

moving mechanically

midst melee, chaos and darkness,

death tolls matching 9/11

and Pearl Harbor every 

single day in America,

one person dying

every 40 seconds,

while Australia has conquered

the pandemic, their new cases

at Zero,

And yet just this week,

ReTrumplicans are acknowledging 

Biden as our next President,

and Covid vaccines are being

certified, and miraculously

needles are going into arms,

there is a dim light,

a pinpoint the size of a pea

moving slowly toward us,

as a message is being

communicated, first a

barely audible hiss,

like rolling thunder,

being repeated as a mantra;

“For Christ’s sake, it’s almost Christmas, be strong,

accept Hope as your primary present, and

remember next year comes with hugs.”

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub