Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas! For your perusal, I present two poems

Joseph

Old thrones wear out under the weight of God.
As I pick out rosewood and ebony
From which to craft the new – I’ll inlay it
With precious gold and pearl – I cast my eyes
Down in the Lord’s presence and peer toward Earth
Through shrouds of nimbus clouds like shorn sheep’s wool
And see the tableaux that display the Birth.
Nubian angels trip on nightgown lace
And lose their feathered wings from off their backs.
Young bath-robed Magi bring the Christ Child gifts.
Blond kindergarten cherubs’ halos slip.
The cardboard oxen low, the Baby hears.

The programs name the Babe the Son of God.
They’re wrong. He was my son. My bones said so.
I didn’t heed what angel messengers
Told Mary in her dreams. When He was born
I felt a plumb, square pride, a smooth-planed love.
The shepherds tried to touch the raveled hem
Of His comfort. And I too felt His strength
Each time I rocked or corned Him fast asleep.
I shooed away the asses, goats and lambs.
I chose not to see the Wise Men bring gifts
Of gold and frankincense and myrrh. Instead
I heard their warnings and we fled Herod.

In Nazareth I raised him as my own.
I showed him how to wield an axe to fell
A tree – eventually to become a cross?
We played catch in the yard when I had time
And fished for trout on Galilee’s green banks.
I spanked him hard the time he stayed behind
To argue dogma in Jerusalem.

But thrones wear out. God calls. I’ve got my task.
No time to bore you with my memories.
He was my son. I knew it in my bones.


Mary

I was an ordinary Jewish girl
Who tried to run away to hide the shame
I felt. How could I blame God as my feet
Swelled up and body bulged? Could I point
My finger and accuse Him? Despite the
Angelic hosts and voices in my dreams,
Despite the myriad Be-not-afraid’s,
I had a time explaining it to Mom,
Let alone Joseph. Then Jesus was born.

God! I was weak. Gods are not easy births.
Resentment faded fast. I just felt proud.
Joseph stood beside me at the inn.
The chaos in that stable frightened me.
All those strangers crowing in to see
The Baby in the manger where He lay.
The middle Magus – Caspar? I forget –
Kept sneezing from the hay, an allergy
I think. I didn’t know what to say to them.
“Have a drink of water?”
“Look out, shepherd,
Your goat almost stepped on His face. Get back”?

The magi brought us four gifts, not just three
Of gold and frankincense and myrrh. They gave
Us warning of King Herod’s wrath, and told
Us, “Go away to Egypt! Save your Son!”
That irony is not now lost on me.
We left the stable, shepherds, oxen, all
The warmth that I had grown accustomed to
And off we flew to Egypt.

My story
Of his birth contains no heavenly choirs.
I was an ordinary Jewish girl
Whose Son’s divinity was thrust on me.


© WDMoser. Printed with permission. No part of this poem may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means without written permission from the author.

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