When I lived in Florida, I often wrote a
Christmas card for friends, family and employees.
The heathen night bled soft light
Over the nativity scene
The camel smell and birth pain hell
Surrounded Christianity’s Queen.
A great white light split the night
Into Oracle predicted day
And the first born Son of the Infinite One
Began His magnificent odyssey.
The heathen night burst into napalm light
At the Far East scene
The petroleum smell of man-made hell
Developed blood-flesh steam.
The thundering sounds lick and pound
The seared jungle walls
And life expires in hot green mires –
Another commandment falls.
In Christ’s own lands the heathen bands
Strafe, raid and shell
His descendants still must attack and kill
Lest genocide prevail.
Our own free soil burns and boils
With youth’s determined pleas
Elders pray or disdain away
The discordant apolcalypse.
Yet hope is high as reindeer fly
And elves in charity toil
And Christ’s own hands with scar torn brand
Caresses humanity all.
The D.R. Sorchych’s