The January Hangover

Same thing happens
every year:

after Thanksgiving
the whole world
seemed to be dressed
in red and green
and snow white with colored lights
with everyone was playing
the same music,

and then on
December 26
it all stops.

All the laughter,
the music,
togetherness

and everything just gets
dark and cold
and dull.

Every January
I go into my post-Christmas funk.

I know it's all
an illusion of
togetherness
this worldwide party
to celebrate the birth of Jesus.

In December its easier
to accept my longing
for a larger shared experience,

for something special
maybe even a miracle.

So as I gather the Christmas
decorations and the cds and
put them back into storage,

I wait out January
determined that it won't
get me down,

and I look forward
to the anniversary of my sobriety,
to my wife's birthday,
to Valentine's Day,

to February.

[Posted for The Tuesday Platform at Imaginaary Garden with Real Toads.]

Christmas Present (For the Brokenhearted)

Christmas Past
stays in yellowed,
attic memories,
re-appearing as
days get short
and the nights become
a cold, black
collective,
and the ache
in my soul finds
its way
from my childhood
to now.

Christmas Future
invariably promises more-
conspiratorial familial laughter,
opulent –themed rooms,
quiet spiritual contentment-
and predictably,
delivers far less
than my covetous dreaming
could ever imagine.

Both Christmases
are illusions,
yielding only
red and green
pangs of sadness.

This year
I’m foregoing both
and becoming
Christmas Present.

Not
The Christmas Present,
but rather,
present,
fully here
this year.

If I stay present
in this time and place,
perhaps
I can sidestep
the pain and
the memories
that usually linger
well into
the next year.

Christmas Present
is my gift
to myself
this year.

[Written for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ]

Christmas on TV

The musical cues
are perfectly timed;
the actors, beautiful,
the Thomas Kincaid lighting.

TV houses remain
impeccably decorated,
with wadded-up
wrapping paper
strangely absent from
the living room floor.

Any tears shed
are because
the two principals
finally found
each other,
and (of course)
they found love,
their cynicism replaced
by a sentimental gesture
that reminds of them
of their lost innocence.

No, Christmas on TV
lacks the wailing, moaning
and unremitting sadness,
longing for loved ones
long passed over
passed by
or passed away.

Christmas on TV
proves no loneliness
goes unanswered,
and everyone
has someone looking in
on them.

But life isn’t TV
and there are
dark, lonely quiet
living rooms,
with lone strings
of half-burned out lights
and dusty, faded nativity scenes,
valiantly trying
to imbue festivity
with warmth.

Christmas on TV
isn’t anything sad,
it sticks around
playing and re-playing
familiar fantasias
that rarely happen
in real life.

For some,
Christmas on TV
is the only Christmas
they know
as they wait
for December 26,
when it will all
vanish,
seemingly overnight,

and everything,
for better or worse
or same,
goes back to normal.

Her Greatest Gift

Through the smoke
and patches of blaze
still smoldering,
I see her
and I cannot help
my movement toward her:

I must be
by her side.

That is where I belong,
where I thrive.

Christmas after Christmas
we collect memories,
all our own,
that no one can touch.

Every year,
I gratefully remember
her greatest gift
to me:

I have never
wished to be
anywhere else,

never envied
another’s coupling,

since I found my place
beside her.

Off-White Christmas

One Christmas
I ventured far from
the West Coast
land of my ancestors
and spent the holidays
in Maryland
where the people
were pleasant
and surprisingly
multicolored.

On Christmas Day
as I strolled the boulevard
with my white companion,
a warm blanket of security
and belonging
and perhaps universal
love
surrounded me,

and as we walked past
others I greeted them

“Merry Christmas!”
“Happy Holidays!”
“Season’s Greetings!”

I was thankful
for the profound effect
the birth of Jesus
had on peoples' kindness.

It felt good.

Two young white men
approached us
and they appeared to be
more than a little drunk
and carrying a few more
6-packs
back to their home
and as they walked by
they said something,
and I answered them with
“Merry Christmas”

but something didn’t feel right.

I stopped and
looked at my companion
whose face betrayed
a puzzled expression.

She asked
“didn’t you hear
what they said?”

“Didn’t they say
‘Merry Christmas’
or something like that?”

She said
“No, they said
‘Happy Beaner Christmas.’”

Shit.
Really?
On Christmas?

I shrugged it off -
what can you expect from
a couple of
gabachos borachos?

Perhaps they had their fill
of love and brotherhood
this holiday season and
my appearance afforded them
an unexpected chuckle.

Perhaps
they saw me as a gift
from their twisted
and diseased god.

Mercifully,
I was scheduled to return
to Southern California
the next day

and I’ve decided that
I’ll spend the rest
of my Christmases here

just as my ancestors
always have.

(Notes: "Beaner" is a derogatory term for Mexican-Americans, which is what I am.  Gabachos borachos translates to "drunken White men.")

Why Do I Love Christmas Music So Much?

My earliest memories
are in bittersweet sepia tones,

in a family of depressives,
sadness and low expectations
came with the deal.

Until I was old enough to
decode a calendar,
“A Charlie Brown Christmas”
heralded the start of
the season of tract homes
transformed by red and green lights,
it was like being sent to Oz.

Somehow, magically,
the world became prettier
and teeming rich with exciting,
beautiful possibilities.

My father would finally
sit on the couch enjoying
Christmas music in front
of his tree,
and my mother would
let me help her bake cookies.

It was the happiest time
I had all year.

More than anything else,
the music took me
far away,

to places where families were happy,
where the snow hid all the misery,
where people were in love.

Then, as mysteriously as it came,
it was gone on Christmas Night.

I remember playing the records
too far into the next January
when my parents would
pack them up with
the whole holiday season
and stash it away
until the next year.

And life went back to
its mundane necessity,
like Dorothy returning
to Kansas.

With every year
as I play them,
the memories
of my youth sweeten.

I play them
for my children now
in the hopes that

one of them
will carry on
this tradition
and remember
their Christmases
spent with me
and smile.

De-Christmasing

Before the
new year arrives,
I de-Christmas
the house.

Fold the festive linen,

exile those ceramic
snowman to their
cardboard Siberia
in the garage,

fade out all those
wall to wall
yule tunes.

The lights,
the music,
the handmade ornaments
from the children,
these things
stay the same
year to year.

We change.

I change.

As I re-seal
the yellowed boxes,
I relive
the blur of memories
attached to each
thing,
before I store it
away
with a blessing
and a wish:

"see you next year,
God willing."

One year,
I won't be so lucky,
and these things
will outlast me,

and I hope
I am part
of someone else's
Christmas memories,

remembered,
at least,
for a season.

I Believe (My Testimony)

Nothing will prepare us for
that angel waiting at our final door
who'll beckon us to come explore
an afterlife we can't ignore.
Unlike the view we've learned before 
no flames are coming through the floor
and there isn't torture, fear or gore
only love everlasting and nothing more.

So listen now, as the truth I tell,
I believe there is no everlasting hell.

Your life unlived, full of regret,
you've dug your grave with a pile of debt,
as eternal challenges go unmet
and childhood dreams you must forget,
but please don't worry or even fret
this rollercoaster ain't over yet,
there's still time to change and get
all that cannot be lost on a bet.

So before this situation worsens,
I believe God will save every person.

Immerse yourself in sacred pages
decode prophecies of ancient sages
but literal interpretations so outrageous
can lead to justifiable rages.
Don't surrender logic in subtle stages
or let fear of death become contagious,
ask the hard questions, be courageous
and let God free you from any cages.

It doesn't matter how it is said or done
I believe, the Lord, our God, is One.

Cherry pick what you believe
and earthy praise you might receive,
a pious halo you might achieve,
but you'll be the only one deceived.
I've been called worse than naive
but I've nothing heretical up my sleeve,
for my Savior born on Christmas Eve
loves us more than we can conceive:

In His family I am your brother,
so Love the Lord, our God 
and love one another.

[Posted for Real Toads' Tuesday Platform; http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2015/12/the-tuesday-platform_22.html - Happy Holidays, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa, Happy New Year y Feliz Navidad, mis amigos!  Dont drink and drive! Don't text and drive! Love, Moskowitz the Humble]

The Only Golden Time

I play these records
until the grooves
are etched deep
in my soul.

They remind me
of growing up,
when Christmas was
the only golden time,
the only magic time
of the year.

These days,
I often see my parents,
and my heart aches
because in my memory
they are together,
not separated
by an early passing.

"...through the years
we all will be together, 
if the fates allow..."

These days,
we have our own
private tradition,
and I live to fulfill it
every Christmas Eve,
and I look forward to it
because it is
the single best
moment of the year.

Everything after that
is just a
thankful exhale.