The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Holy Night

Let me not pretend to be holier than
the night or day of the dervish, for
I drink just as deeply from the draught
and warm my heartstrings by the same hearth.

Tonight, a power greater than myself
will pass through these walls and thought chimneys
to the edge of my bed, and he will place
his warm hand upon my cookies and drink my milk.

Innocence traded by the tinsel-tongued
for a box of mysteries, figs, and dates of my
apple's eye, sweet cinnamon fingertips
and musky apricots dried and hanging low.

I am letting go, filled with storied cheer
and mindful of the antigrinchite message,
warmed to my core, relaxed, reclined, and
loosely swaddled in evergreen and fur pelts.

Warmed, mulled spirits and buttered, silk cookies
Salamis of kippered fishes, caraway kraut and dumplings
Sated and enthralled in hugs and kisses
I unwrap the bows and spill my cornucopia.

But what is this?  
One final red velvet box beneath the tree?  For me?
They didn't forget? or fail to see
my final wish and dying plee?

One primal desire, passed on from the fathers and friends
an unspoken inheritance, sweet mithril of vindication,
noble platinum, gold crown encrusted in eras of emeralds
and sapphires, lusted into stones set between sweet lead,
we were never worthy, nor did our dreams pierce how this
moment would appear and scintillate, 
low chanted song rises from long drifted snows, 
starlight falls between the tombstones that
we placed in rememberance as we cried out from the rocks
and wizened woods, dancing between the fire of youth and
the river of age, mixed into reminiscences like nard
in honeyed mead until its cloying we can take no more
as it boils in our blood and exhales through our nostrilled sighs.

As it was and has always been 
done, we tick our cog and scry for more
ne'er to be forgotten in the loneliness of yore.
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