StarPoet Newsletter Vol. XII, No. LII

Baby Jesus and I have a lot in common:
He was born during lambing in the spring
In a society full of sexist patriarchy,
I was born in the heat of the summer
In a nation full of sexist patriarchs;
He was raised by a Jewish Mother,
Mine was Sicilian but just as traditional;
We both like wine and holiday family dinners,
Though if turkey were available he'd probably
Make soup and mashed potatoes would be a shock;
Our professions are similar, a rabbi and a poet,
We're both good with words
        and stirring thought and emotions,
But I probably take more showers in a week
Than he ever did in his short lifetime, and I,
For one, would pass on the honey and locust.

The Church has grown rigid,
Jealous of sharing her authority,
Worried that her influence is waning
As the scars and abuses of centuries
Take their toll.

Her world quakes,
Her cathedral crumbles,
Her once sainted spires crack and splinter,
Their fragments crashing back onto earth.

We are hers at birth,
We are hers at death,
The path between the two
Is more twisted than she suspects:
We are neither angels nor sinners
And deserve more respect.

Welcome to the Pentagon,
I'm sure you've heard of us;
Our offices are festooned
With Santas and bright garlands
And the patter of security forces
Can be heard up on the roof;
It's the holiday season inside our walls
Even as the war drags on.

— Lisa Jain Thompson (December 2011)

No snow, no jobs, and surely no peace,
Only the winter chill that fills
Family, home and table while
The White House remains well treed;

While Occupy is occupied with iPhones,
And Congress is snug in their heavens,
The economy's down, the budget's gone,
Christmas falls heavy across the midlands.

Perhaps I'm an agent of the Anti-Christ
- I'm certainly not all that white -
And God only knows that the Pope and I
Have had so many differences;

I do celebrate Christmas, however,
A time of gatherings and families,
The Sun King returns, spring awaits us
If we can just get past the next snowstorm.

If I were a holiday and not the Fourth of July,
I would be Christmas or Thanksgiving
And invite my friends and family:
The kids would be out at the card tables
When we serve the turkey or ravioli,
The rest of us would all be sitting
Around some grandparent ancient wood
Handcarved for food and celebration
As well as catching-up.

Santa used to arrive
Somewhere between midnight Christmas Eve,
When my mother tucked me into bed
After all the relatives had left,
And five-thirty Christmas morning
When I woke up to peek at my presents,
Carefully noting how many of them were mine
And how many, my younger brother's;
Santa always came out even, even if
My brother's toys were somewhat more exciting
Than the ones that Santa left for me,
I was the enfant terrible,
My brother, already the jock,
I got the chemistry set,
He got the Civil War soldiers,
We both, however, got coonskin hats,
Although mine was orange and his a dull brown.

Sugar Plums and Swans


Forest green elves and sugar plum fairies,
Pretty dancers all in a line,
Swans in formation, reindeer and starlight,
Snow on the ground outside.

Here come the sun, here come the presents,
Here come the turkey and the goose,
Honey sliced ham, fresh coffee and pie,
Family, parents, and friends.

Up on the rooftop, out on the cable,
Carols and love and loneliness,
Joy to the world, peace and happiness,
Good will, if we can, to everyone.