Feast of the Epiphany (which is not about Epiphany) - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
From 2006:

Feast of the Epiphany

Grey days recede into dreary, drizzling dusks
Baptismal rains across the windows slip
And even the candlelight is not proof
Against the gathering gloom of heartfall

Shakespeare leans uncertainly on the shelf
And agonizes over his writer’s block
Milton is writing yet another tract
On faith while smoking Players cigarettes

Warnie and Jack are out for a brisk walk
And Tollers is busy correcting proofs
Under a yellow puddle of lamplight
Bleak Spenser in his grief Kilcolman weeps

We all hold castles abandoned and burnt
Friendships grown mouldy, squabbles unresolved
Walks not taken, rough drafts uncorrected
Pipes gone quite out, cups of tea gotten cold

Has it been that long since I saw you last?
Come in; I’ll put the kettle on for tea
Just leave your coat and brolly by the door
Come sit by the fire; come, and talk with me

Feast of the Epiphany - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Feast of the Epiphany

Grey days recede into dreary, drizzling dusks
Baptismal rains across the windows slip
And even the candlelight is not proof
Against the gathering gloom of heartfall

Shakespeare leans uncertainly on the shelf
And agonizes over his writer’s block
Milton is writing yet another tract
On faith while smoking Players cigarettes

Warnie and Jack are out for a brisk walk
And Tollers is busy correcting proofs
Under a yellow puddle of lamplight
Bleak Spenser in his grief Kilcolman weeps

We all hold castles abandoned and burnt
Friendships grown mouldy, squabbles unresolved
Walks not taken, rough drafts uncorrected
Pipes gone quite out, cups of tea gotten cold

Has it been that long since I saw you last?
Come in; I’ll put the kettle on for tea
Just leave your coat and brolly by the door
Come sit by the fire; come, and talk with me

The Feast of the Epiphany This Year - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

The Feast of the Epiphany This Year

If the Three Kings were to visit today
They’d need the proper paperwork
Passports and visas, and what is the purpose
Of your visit? A check through INTERPOL
A cavity search by rubbery hands
An escort armed with bribes and Kalashnikovs
Through tourists armed with me-phones, selfie sticks
And cardboard chalices, following a Starbuck’s
Searching the East for a wondrous ATM
If the Three Kings were to visit today

Octave Sunday - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Octave Sunday

The bishops say this is Epiphany
This silvery-grey Sunday in the Octave
With church ladies clucking over the schedules
Of lectors and servers and commentators
Eucharistic ministers who aren’t here
Are you first cup? Well, I can be. Would you?
And does the Christmas tree come down today?
And monthly luncheon in the hall after Mass
This is all very Ordinary Time but
The bishops say this is Epiphany

Bonfire Deferred - Poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Bonfire Deferred

If there is no Christmas bonfire this year
And Epiphany drifts into January
Lit only by the silent dance of stars
Serving in the office of votive lights
In peaceful solitude while through the trees
Coyote sings for his elusive supper
We’ll plan the children’s bonfire for next year
Sparklers and firecrackers and merry laughter
Built from the happy glow of memories
If there is no Christmas bonfire this year

After Epiphany III (and I'm not calling the three poems a tryptich)

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

After Epiphany III

 

The stripping of the tree is almost Lenten

The ornaments gone, only “bare ruined choirs”

Remain, no comfort of carols or hymns

As it is dragged outside into the cold

It almost seems to shiver in the winter sun

Reduced to poverty and then to scraps

Which in the months to come enkindle then

An evening fire after the cows are milked

But not celebrated with festive lights

The stripping of the tree is almost Lenten

After Epiphany I & II

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

After Epiphany I

 

Epiphany is the door into winter

Into those bleak, grey days, into the cold

When time itself is huddled in the dark

Asleep, suspended in the drifting mist

In clouds of icy mist among the trees

Above the somnolent, shivering earth

The brief, pale sun in silence disappears

The moon in silence rises high to watch 

Over a world asleep until far spring

Epiphany is the door into winter

 

After Epiphany II

 

There will not be a gay bonfire tonight

The outside animals were early fed

And early sheltered in their straw-strewn barn

To chew and low and snuffle through the hours

Then folks withdrew from duties and the dark

Into the house to hang their coats and find

A chair next to the stove; they sigh the time

And mourn the emptiness where was the tree

And linger drowsily over a Christmas book

There will be not be a gay bonfire tonight