Friday, December 27, 2013

Home Buyers

by Jen Hunt, from the archives

I may enter a house
Be pleased with the shades, the trim
The bathroom sink
But if the boiler room leaks or
Does not heat
I will not buy

I may enter a church
Impressed by flat screen TVs
The neat broom closet
But if there is no room
For prayer or
I will pass by

Wednesday, December 18, 2013

Christmas, I Hate You

by Jen Hunt, from the archives

Christmas, I hate you
The stress of you
The mess of you
The fit in small black dress of you
The fake of you
The ache of you
The up 'til midnight bake of you
The glitz of you
The blitz of you
The party can't be missed of you
The bait of you
The weight of you
The dread of late mail fate of you
The rush of you
The slush of you
The crumpled wrapping mush of you
The whet of you
The get of you
The deeper into debt of you

Jesus, I love you
The fuss of you
The muss of you
The come and walk our dust of you
The why of you
The lye of you
The love I could not buy of you
The serve of you
The nerve of you
The not what I deserve of you
The calm of you
The balm of you
The feel here in my palm of you
The catch of you
The patch of you
The death has met its match of you
The near of you
The far of you
The take me where you are of you

Tuesday, December 17, 2013

Ripples and Shadows

by Jen Hunt, from the archives

It's as routine as flossing
This tossing
Of seasonal sentiment hither and yon
And I've never been fond of that either
Why not save ourselves
Some trees?
Why not
On three,
Pass your Hallmark
We sinners, though a motley lot
Reunion at the tender plot
When God first became clad
As a man
Our hails, faintest ripples
Of angel peals and frankincense smells
Palest shadows of towns
Where crowns are tossed and
Flossing, if required
Will prove all heavenly

Monday, December 16, 2013

Christ on Delivery

or "Christmas Present" following "Christmas Past"
by Jen Hunt, from the archives

Now say it's the eleventh hour and it's your doorbell
and you don't recall ordering anything online lately
but you're sure all the vacuum salesfolk are in bed
so you answer.

Let's say it's so close you can smell it,
but the thing is marked
--Jeez aren't you just about dying to know--
it's marked
(What currency does God take anyway?)

You know how easy it is to get taken,
still you feel compelled to take it
there's just that little problem of those red letters
Spilling C.O.D. all over the thing.
So you search your wallet,
but find it

Scrapping the come-back-tomorrow
You find yourself thinking what-the-hell
and grabbing--
Surprising even you
with how criminal you could be
(and that's not the half of it)

Then you pause,
crouched against your bolted door,
contraband in hand

Save for the tearing of paper
and your own guilty sighs
you would've heard
heaven leap
Thank God
whoever sent it is
a Mind Reader
a Gambler
and More--

C.O.D. = Christ On Delivery

Wednesday, December 11, 2013

Christmas Past

by Jen Hunt, from the archives

Seems once God
Gets a package to
A couple
Bound for Bethlehem
With no forwarding address—

Word gets out

Some don't know the babe from Adam
Others say he IS
Adam, sort of
Only new and improved
And without the points on his driver's license—

Opinions matter

Monday, December 9, 2013

The Manger

by Jen Hunt, from the archives

Was the manger made of wood?
Sawed and jagged, cut and grooved
Sagging, splintered, piercing through
Clawing at an unseen wound
Branch, lifting a fair one higher
To the flame and to the fire

Was the manger stone, you say?
As marble seeped in sorrow, gray
Rough, like pavement traveled often
Quiet, as an empty coffin
Mortar for a fatal pestle
Doomed to crush the sole Begotten

Was the manger holy fodder?
Cupped hands lowered from the Father
Falling from his lonely bosom
Hanging like a beggar’s palm
Opened bare to spear and shadow
Holding light for every man