Crimsontide

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 Crimsontide

Jesus wept as he said, “Whoever shall humble himself

as a little child is great in kingdom.” (Matthew 18:4)

Those logs of Yule, 

cohorts of candy canes,

and devastated forests

are upon us; many of the

children are hushed, awed, and frightened 

by the raw pain found in the faces

of Christ on those multi-cultural crucifixes,

grimacing in silver, ivory, and gold.

Confusion reigns as myths and scripture

mingle like newts and mushrooms

in a Celtic Germanic Middle Eastern pastiche,

as every year concludes under an aluminum,

plastic, or dying rootless tree, flocked, bound

in popcorn, icicles, blinking lights, hallmark bulbs,

and wooden ornaments, on a designated day

linked mysteriously to St. Nicholas, 

Father Christmas and Tannenbaum, 

then catapulted into the sands of Judea--

to shepherds in rags with their sheep,

and spindle-legged camels carrying kings

to a sky full of angels humming hosannas 

and bending the light, to wise men mantled

in bright silks standing in animal dung, kneeling

in it while extending their gifts at the feet 

of a strangely silent babe sitting up 

in its roughly-hewn wooden cradle, while

his mother shivered in the straw, cold and weak

in the shimmering pinlight with the strangers.

Behold as Santa Claus cracks a cruel whip

and magical reindeer from Lapland,

freshly castrated by the teeth of unblushing

virgins, defy gravity, fold back time

and pull a great silver sled across the skies

of the world, everywhere on the planet,

in one night.

Jocular St. Nick always wears his red suit,

fringed in white ermine and baby seal fur,

stretched tight over his girth

like the skin on a German sausage,

the stark white of melting polar caps

and the red drenched in blood,

the red of revolutions, of grievous wounds

of flapping flags, of opium poppies,

and of the Christ to come, 

his hot blood wine becoming the chosen elixir 

of priests, ministers, and evangelists;

the identical crimson stuff scourged from sinners

and infidels during a myriad of Christmas Crusades,

not that long after it had been raked into the parched

earth of Roman arenas before and after

his thirty-three birthdays, where men enslaved

were prodded with hot irons to do battle

with other men and with beasts, and those other

crucified ones could see from their own crosses

the steel meathooks plunged into heels, attached

to plumed braying burros who dragged

the corpses of the cowardly and the fallen

out the Porta Libitina, no bellicus 

on their blackened bleeding lips,

no dirges or prayers, as the corpulent crowds 

sat peeling grapes

and waving holiday handkerchiefs.

The frozen Popsicle in the festive stocking cap

standing next to that red tub ringing a tiny bell

outside Safeway said, “A little child shall lead them

in purity and humility.” But I still wonder 

if the child won’t lose its way subsisting

on fairy tales, lies, and madness.

Glenn Buttkus  

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub OLN