An untitled Christmas poem, appearing ere the times are ripe.
Woman's cries mingle with infant's,
Stars hide from the primal counterpoint.
The climbing sun sees no new thing;
Blood and water the straw anoint.
A child of an unknown father,
Proclaimed both a god and a king –
The myth is old and no new thing.
(Yet "In a manger" still we sing.)
The days creep dark around us,
We hurry though our private woes.
Hope deferred is no new thing:
Over the heart's desire drift snows.
Old trickling melodies transform
To dolce wave that touches star.
Shy flame of hope is no new thing:
Comfort shall never more dwell far.
Caroling voices crescendo;
Spinning ornaments, childhood-bright...
This joy on earth is no new thing,
Yet happiness hallows the night.
And another, more seasonally appropriate. (The form is supposed to be a Spenserian sonnet, not that I know much about Spenserian sonnets other than their form.)
The Return of the Geese
The winter has stripped e'en our naked skin
To stigmata; Snow-blindness is become
The mural of our days. The air is thin
And grey with weariness, standing lonesome,
Waiting for the sun's forgotten ransom.
We have been mocked by the heralds of spring,
Whose teasing breezes, promises handsome,
Stol'n by the strife of tongues and the nagging
Wind, leave us to mold into earth cov'ring.
Passing the morning, we avert our eyes,
When – greeting earth with wide, embracing wings –
He announces his advent in loud cries;
His white-banded neck reaches to the clouds.
With a young sigh, the heart hides in the sound.
As always, criticisms are much appreciated (especially so I'll know if someday submitting something to a contest would be a completely ridiculous idea or not).