… to give.

By J. K. McDowell

February 2016

 

There are lost found poems, there are found lost poems.

In the sorted differences, January slips through your fingers.

Fear grips a freshly sharpened pencil, begin again.

 

The claws and fangs of this New Year are showing.

Have you been stealing from my collection of crucifixion nails?

The neglect of routine mending has finally let in the cold.

 

Everyone seems to have forgotten the gifts

They opened on that blessed morning last year.

We demand salvation but bring no charity.

 

I have filled the cracks in the mirror with gold.

I am not sure I cut myself any less while shaving.

The scent of Moroccan Myrrh fills the bath.

 

This year, the King Cake madness has come too early.

Garish charades and crowded parades overrun

The common sense of prudence and compassion.

 

I am gathering the colored shards of shattered

Contemplations. James, don’t tell me what you want

Or what you think. Tell me what are you going to give.

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