The McDonald's drive-thru is aligned
So that, at. 9:16 am,
As I wait in line to order,
The sun and I are face to face.
It's cloudy today,
And like a smoked lens,
The weather allows me look at the sun
And in this veiled way,
To see it as the star it truly is
On this, the solstice morning.

I remember one of the only best friends I ever had
Brought me a Christmas present.
Her whole family came to my house
And watched me open it.
It was in a big cowboy boot box,
Unwrapped, and I thought it might be boots,
But as I lifted off the lid,
I smelled oranges.

They all watched my face expectantly,
And I smiled, and thanked them for the oranges.
I was five. My best friend was six.

And the oranges were delicious,
They may have been all the way from California,
But all my life, I've gotten strange gifts,
And mostly what they've always taught me is:
You can't have what you want.

Until you.

Because,
You are what I want,
And I'm thankful for you,
And you give me such beautiful gifts.
You are the meaning of Christmas to me.
You've shown me
I CAN have what I want,
And that is the most powerful liberation
I've ever received.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.

-jenn

Everybody just wants to go home,
Especially when you're sick.
Sometimes it's a long way,
The roads aren't paved,
And to get to the road, there are lots of gates.

There's a difference between country  mice
And their city cousins.
Country mice know some gates are hard for women to open,
And that you've got to shut it back
So the cows don't get out,
And the horses.

They want out baaaaaaad.
I've had to face a charging horse
And hit it just right with my jutsu,
Knock it to the ground
And wallow with it down in the dust
While some fool fumbled with the gate.

I should have shut the gate,
And let him fumble with the horse.

But like I say,
Everybody just wants to go home,
Whatever that is.

-jenn

In this abhang, everything is part of the poem.
Even the unpoetic parts, even the nights
When no one sleeps,
That too, is part of the
Communitarian journey.

Fear is the only thing that stops Love.
Hate is not its opposite.
Ennui is never part of it,
But only fear creates a push that blocks Love's flow.

Love doesn't push well.
Love doesn't pull.
It plays nice with others
In a team sport, like
Unsynchronized swimming, or
Free-style dancing in the park,
Not tit for tat,
But I'll scratch your back,
And you can scratch mine, too,
If you want to.

I see you do.
Now that's sooooooo sweeeet.
That's Love.

-jenn

When the sky is Flatley grey,
So much so that the streetlamps have to stay
On all morning and into the afternoon,
And the trees have lost their leaves
So that all you see of them
Is dull gray brown bark and branches,
Black and wispy and thin against the blank.
Then don't forget your coat and hat,
And wrap your neck up nice and tight,
And after that, remember
To don your smile,
And let your eyes shine for a while on me,
For theirs is the only hue that moves me
Thru the holler days,
And the cold drear of December.

-jenn

Eight oaken magi attend my birth.
They stand silently and observe
Something born again in me today.
They bring their gifts:
Attentive eyes,
Adoring coos, grateful sighs,
That I am healthy and complete.
They bring frankincense and myrrh
And gold and leave them at my feet,
And new fire is kindled deep inside of me.
My cells regenerate again today,
And I am alive and here to stay
For a bit longer.
I celebrate all this in me,
All this in you,
Divine life coursing through us.
We rejoice in laughs and smiles,
Offer each other Peace,
Goodwill, and Love, and Happiness,
Beautifully aware of Incarnation renewed in us Today.

-jenn

When that shiny black Kia Sorrento passes by
At 9:35 on a Sunday morning,
And without warning, I see Ken and Barbie
Ensconced within,
So perfectly coiffed and arranged,
And even the whoosh of their vehicle by
Gives me a whiff of the latest millennial version of Aqua Velva.

I see the beady eye of that Kia
Menacing, promising me that it will take me to church too,
Someday, just a little while longer.

But I've just walked a mile and a half with you, God,
And I wouldn't trade that for anything.

-jenn

The sling was invented by a man
Who put his hand in his pocket
While his arm was out of socket
And noted the relief.
And when the man got home he found
The underdrawers that he had on
Beneath his outer britches
Had no pocket, but some slits with stitches
That allowed him better to pee.
But with his outer britches off,
He found his pocket also doffed,
And his arm hung limp and he screamed in pain
Until he pulled his underbreeks
Up to his chin and slang his sore arm tnru.
And this all worked fine
Until his wife came in from the butcher shack
And found him in this matter-of-fact way,
And in her alacrity and pragmatic sense
Of his calamity and her defense
Of such a sight in her kitchen,
She took up a bodkin and sliced off a piece of her own petticoat
And fashioned him a proper sling
That he could wear with anything
Whether pocketed or not,
Until his arm healed up right and righteously.

-jenn