Poem for Christmas 2016

Gaudete!

It's not that tinsel is tainted (it isn't);
and fairy lights can be all-ways fair;
pining for paper-chains sans sparkle,
is nostalgia pure, and not more.

And done to death for sure, I'm sure
is all the talk (I talk it too)
of the risks and of the pains
of that blood-red-raw birth in the trough.

And man at war with man here
still shrugs at peace-peace platitudes,
(or lowing beasts, or lowly Gd – the lot).
They wash us; they wash over us well.

So, this year's turning turns up new:
I forefind I find in me no will
to bash the bling of baubles bright
or the waste laying waste to the waist.

But let me add one thing, just one:
know, yet, with all that's overdone,
the forced or drunk-soaked mirth
(our ghoulish, Yuleish grimaces)

here too is gift of joy. Yes
(gentle reader, gentle writer),
know that we – like He - are
made for joy.