Works in Progress
Poetry 1

Bits and pieces from my notebooks


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Sweet is the hour past midnight,
when angels gather and watch from above,
what happens in homes on Christmas Eve.
when children sleep, and all is very quiet.

Packages appear from cellar, attic and closets
with rolls of paper and ribbons for wrapping,
and mom smiles at dad, on his hands and knees,
reading assembly instructions written by Japanese.

Gifts are stacked beneath and around the Christmas tree,
and only one task remains before parents stop to share
a kiss beneath the mistletoe, and cup of Christmas tea.

Into each of the empty stockings hung from the mantle
they stuff sweets and nuts, oranges, pears and apples.
But the greatest gifts of all that night, or any other,
are the fruits of the Spirit; love, joy, patience and peace,
gentleness, goodness, and faith in abundance,

All these, together with meekness and temperance,
are gifts which cannot be bought, just accepted
and passed along, from loving parents to little ones,
who, in their turn will share them with children of their own.


Ancient echos,
distant dreams,
on wings of night
in star-lit streams,
summon spirits,
to the light,
binding lovers
once departed,
and yet to be,
in eternal


Times of grieving
Lives too quickly past,
Are but moments
fates have cast,
Like bitter blossoms
Which intoxicate,
Then wither.
The one who walks alone,
Beyond this place,
Leaves behind
The grieving face
Of one who loved,
And always will,
The dreams she held
So briefly.


Death descended on wings of steel
Piercing the morning sky.
Crescent, star and hearts of zeal,
Said innocents must die!

Martyrs to the vicious lie,
In scriptures writ in gall,
Evil angels of death did cry,
We sacrifice them all!

Why does freedom so offend you,
And liberty so enrage?
The same God of Christian and Jew,
Granted Muhammad's age.

What perversion of faith inspired,
Or even asked of you
What no God ever required
His faithful servants do?

Show me, in this world or the next,
Where any God on high
Decreed in holy book or text
That anyone must die?


Copyright 2001 Susan Donahue - all rights reserved