by W Roger Carlisle

My children hold my hands,
I hold a flickering candle in the darkness of the sanctuary, Oh come all ye faithful,
Joyful and triumphant, pierces the air.

Silent is the night in the dark empty streets,
where stop lights start and stop, where the faithful live troubled and alone,
enduring the pandemic in the cold,
having no money to pay the rent, and fearing the virus.

It is midnight on Christmas.
My street is quiet as I take out the trash,
so many boxes and piles of wrapping paper,
from the many many presents we did not need.

Not much triumph going on here, the faithful plow ahead isolated and confused,
hiding from their fears in the dark.
My children are peacefully asleep in their beds
as I await the coming of the angels.

W Roger Carlisle is a 75-year-old, semi-retired physician. He currently volunteers and works in a free medical clinic for patients living in poverty. He grew up in Oklahoma and was a history major in college. He has been writing poetry for 11 years. He is currently on a journey of returning home to better understand himself through poetry. He hopes he is becoming more humble in the process.

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