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twiglets embrace as thorns and flowers

                                    prickly wreath draped on a resilient head

                                    a cross road for mankind in lonesome eyes

                                    searching Golgotha for everlasting kindness


betrayed forsaken for some lousy shillings

sacrificed by his own father for the cause

Mother Mary weeping undocumented in pain

for her immaculate son conceived by God


		all will be for good her counsellor insisted

		post-traumatic stress comes out in the wash

		while the dirty loincloth soaked up the blood

		draped in ragged clouts screaming despair 


				the nails went deep into the wry conscience

				shadowed in the fading sun at murky dusk

				as Pontius Pilate scratched his piles in vain

				get it over with I need rest and the bathroom


this is the end of all suffering some thought

as the stench of vomit and foul evacuation 

failed the prophesy of meeting up with Buddha

no figs for Jesus only metallic taste in his mouth


	could have at least hanged him with a noose
	
        would have kicked away and turned the tables

	in a last show of resilience for sadistic killers

	who even took the tools of a death with dignity


                                fast backward a few decades onto Christmas

                                in a mangled manger and forward over time

                                the decay of so-called glorious civilization

                                crusades crushed peace and nuclear bombs


	the Holocaust and genocidal might of power

	famines mine fields poppies on marble tombs

	air raids drones destruction in the name of what

	star-wars self-righteous mindless devastation


			and yet the halo of passion and compassion

			stands in stark belligerent juxtaposition of
 
			passion faith unbroken belief and blessings
 
			while Santa delivers chocolates and mince pies


this time corona lingers over isolated folks

and all we worry about is a bloody face mask

and a bit of sanitizer on squeaky clean hands

perspective I need to shout brothers and sisters


		                     I lost real human beings in the crematoria

		                     my father advanced to Stalingrad and hell

		                     Mom sifted through the rubble of Dresden

		                     and I sit sheltered by a fireplace of warmth


I may not decorate the tree with myrrh and candles 

don't savour Black Friday and the empty melodies

in supermarkets and gift shops under lockdown but

even an ardent atheist can see that there is a message


                               of the story of Calvary Coventry Bagdad and

                               the last supper with a full belly where I reside
 
                               I call it blasphemy hypocrisy and self-indulgence

                               to moan about some restraint during Covid Christmas
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