I’ll never meet him,
Feel his trained doctor’s touch
Or herd the goats while watching the
Chickens peck for corn so near his simple
Infirmary, a clinic I will never see.

He, dark and luxurious of skin, the pillar
Of his native African village
Will never know my name.

He will go on his mission of mercy
Grateful, untroubled, confident in knowing
Someone, somewhere, intercontinental,
Believed in him, this unknown young man,
Believed he
Could help with the work of Christ,

To gently cure the sick. 

CHARLENE JAMES
AMISSVILLE, VIRGINIA 

Visiting sick friends
Really far too much trouble
Till you’re the ailing one

Haiku happens best
As mountain’s grey capping clouds
Appear then fade quick

Winter kill is real.
Ask any blossom failing
To believe snow knows

Why write of sorrow
Pain, aches, unhappy sad times,
Joy will romp in May

If you’ve read this far
Your heart still beats wild, freely
Be glad like newborns

Conclude, top off days
With blushing whole ripe cherries
More fun than sauerkraut

Photo by Martin Jameson

Suspended on a silken thread
In the celestial universe
Of Christmas Eve,
Midnight Mass waits to begin.
Anticipation grows
For the perfect moment to announce
The Christ Child to His fans.

Lights! Camera! Action!
The elves, reindeer, shepherds, santas,
Nutcrackers, and sugar plum fairies,
The Magi and minions, snowflakes and snowmen
Loiter, sharing peppermint canes with
Paparazzi, poised for a scoop.
The Baby Jesus will awake, the festivities will begin.

But nothing happens
Except for a stray cow lowing.

No carols, no star on high, no joy on earth,
Too silent a night.
The miracle moment is stuck in time 

Until
A ginger-haired little girl
Passes a department store’s window.
As she pauses in delight,

Trumpets blare, Drums rat-a-tat,
Alleluia, Christmas is here at last.

For in the smile of this child,

There, is Christmas.

Charlene James-Duguid,
Amissville, Virginia

We age, shop, hold hands.
Not much else to do, when body
Is tin can for soul.

*

Little left in life.
Relish what is and can be.
Caterpillar does.

*

Happy thoughts flap wild,
Clothesline full, gamely whipped as
Small wrens tip the pole

*

Fear of forgetting
Runs rampant at my Bridge Club
Or is it Canasta?

Thanks
Giving
Brings out
Orphans in the storm.
All those stray dog-and-cat-type folks
Without a place to go.

Searching memories for words
To make an acceptable presence,
They pretend
At a festive table.

The hostess, herself,
Tossed in and out of marriages,
Hopes a three hundred dollar gobbler
Will
Save the day.

“Of course it won’t”
She tells the only guest caring enough to know
It is a fruitless effort.
But with a single tear falling, as she carves,
Her heart sings out,
“I can dream of love
Shawling my shoulders,
Making me whole.
Can’t I “

Charlene James
Amissville, Virginia
November, 2017