This first poem is a reflection on the death of my dear friend “Frankie”.
On a grey day in a suburb
the church bells peel
for a widow newly departed.
Her body was lowered
into a watery grave,
but the sun shone through the clouds
like an anthem.
Downtown, shoppers set the tone,
and “jingle bells” is what the tills are ringing.
I’m dreamin’ of a white…
Q: Daddy, where does Santa live?
A: Santa’s address is stress!
No room in the…
May you have a blessed and peaceful Christmas.