December 27th and this is my first post original post online, on any social network or website, since late Christmas Eve. And this is a repeat of what I posted that night. I'm full of anxiety and frustration right now, and I'm not sure why I'm expressing that here and now, except to vent this poison, be done with it, and move on to better topics.
I wrote this poem many years ago, high school or college, I'm not sure. The original is on lined paper in a notebook, saved in a box that has moved with me ever since I moved out on my own. It made its online debut just a few days ago, late in the evening. Then the melancholy set in. I'm reaching to the past for the flame of hope. I'm finding it harder to hold on to good ideas, the beautiful dreams, the words to describe the wonder I feel inside, the way I did when I wrote this poem. My focus is scattered; my heartbeat is racing with fear that I will lose the flame. Even now as I type. I suppose this is enough, for now. For those who have questions, please ask, and I will answer as best as I can. I hope this becomes trivial, the moment before the fire is rekindled.
Postcard #5:
Midnight on the Mountain
Green needles with the sweet smell of pine,
Boughs laden with crisp, new-fallen snow.
I look up through a break in the clouds,
The bright star in the sky tells me so.
’Tis a Holy Babe, wrapped in soft shrouds.
The Christ Child is born in Bethlehem.
Poem by Michael Galli
I wrote this poem many years ago, high school or college, I'm not sure. The original is on lined paper in a notebook, saved in a box that has moved with me ever since I moved out on my own. It made its online debut just a few days ago, late in the evening. Then the melancholy set in. I'm reaching to the past for the flame of hope. I'm finding it harder to hold on to good ideas, the beautiful dreams, the words to describe the wonder I feel inside, the way I did when I wrote this poem. My focus is scattered; my heartbeat is racing with fear that I will lose the flame. Even now as I type. I suppose this is enough, for now. For those who have questions, please ask, and I will answer as best as I can. I hope this becomes trivial, the moment before the fire is rekindled.
Postcard #5:
Midnight on the Mountain
 |
| Photo Credit: Wally Pacholka Photographs |
Green needles with the sweet smell of pine,
Boughs laden with crisp, new-fallen snow.
I look up through a break in the clouds,
The bright star in the sky tells me so.
’Tis a Holy Babe, wrapped in soft shrouds.
The Christ Child is born in Bethlehem.
Poem by Michael Galli
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