I say puny prayers,
Not quite half-hearted,
Or half-baked
Supplications,
But unfocused,
Weak,
wanting,
Though I don’t know what.

Zest, Zeal, a major lack.

Where in the liturgical vocabulary
Is the rank order of asking, receiving,
Thanking,
Defined.

Should I be
Begging,
Scourging,
Suffering,

Or merely letting the pain in my patellas
Suffice.

Knowing He despises
Ingratiation
As a slap in His nonexistent face,
I stay away from smarmy platitudes 

Wondering what is left.
My saintliness, feeble as an attempt at
Godliness, is a joke,
A stand-up’s misstep,
A fall off the stage
Into the seven-circled
Orchestra pit.

Recovering,
I hear, a Voice,
Not like kettle drums,
But reeds,
Comfort me.

“That’s okay, My Child,”
It soothes.
“Heaven’s just a rainbow ride away.”

Charlene James
Amissville, Virginia
October, 2017

He kissed me under the
Mistletoe.
Not a great one, considering
His reputation as an earthy cowboy,
But then again, he was old-fashioned
And my family was looking on.

A room full of trees, and trains, bows,
And colored balls, lights flickering in time with
Noel after Noel.

Then the snow began, predicted to fall gently
on our quaint little
Storybook town,
It slammed us,
blizzard-like,
In danger of caving in the roof.

Pelting buildings,
Overturning cars,
Breaking shovels, the old-fashion forged-steel kind.
Plastic didn’t have a chance.
Storm after storm,
Days passed.

No contact with the world we knew.
Only a holiday barely lived with the
Help of a generator.

Melting of snow to water,
Keeps us alive.

Food runs short, emergency supplies
In jeopardy.
The realization strikes.
Not equipped for this
Even with survival books and gear.

This might have been our last kiss,
Last carol, last ribboned gifts.

All of us, a Family,
In a cabined blizzard.
We will die.

Our final prayers go up,
Simplest of requests.
“Make our last the best.”

The youngest, a boy, little one,
Says the “Amen.”

Then, without fanfare
the door springs open.
Rays of sun peel off
The crystalline hoar.

A voice, a hero’s timbre,
“Everyone okay in here?
Quite a storm, hey, even
For up North.”

Astonished,
tears of joy in our throats
We brewed the coffee,
Sliced the hard, crossed-bun,
smiled the sunshine in,

And kissed, again, under the mistletoe.

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia
December, 2017

Deny Friday 13
It’s power, snub your nose, stamp foot,
Make it crash aloft.

Prove you’re bigger, Great.
Untrampled by numbers
On a monthly page.

Refute each classic
Myth looming larger than real life.
Gods can’t get it right.

You retain the truth
You, not they, make glory days
Like this by yourself.

Call it magic or will,
Ratchet up destiny, capture
Immortality.

Charlene James
Amissville, Virginia

Like nothing else,
The sound creates
Notes and clefs without a pause.
Each onto itself a Symphony.

Purposed by God
For all the reasons
Humans will never know, He
Dressed feelings in finer cloth.

He wakes the calm
With taps, and raps
That live a decibel past where
Wonder dare not roam.

A Gift, prepared with care,
Delivered in surprise
The jump of joy
Each  droplet makes.

Ah, marvel of true,
Peace-filled energy
Stunning in simplicity,
A Miracle of deftness.

Past the barrier of logic,
I burrow in for a Magic Morn
With
The Gentle Rain

Charlene James
Amissville, Virginia 

Come here the music play…