February 24, 2026: “Advent,” Taking Myself Too Seriously, “Life of the Party: A Limerick”

I take myself too seriously sometimes, in case you haven’t noticed.  My last few posts bear this out.  I get inside my head and stay there, just rattling around.  So, I’m not going to get all dark and pissy this evening, despite the fact that the Cheeto in Chief is currently delivering his State of the Disunion address to Congress as I’m typing these words.  I am making the choice to . . . keep it light.

Marie Howe time travels . . . 

Advent

by: Marie Howe

Not that we knew or could imagine

what some mild blue evenings made us homesick for.

Call it forethought but not thought of,

not conceived exactly.

When it happened, we said we saw it coming

approaching a horizon we hadn’t

known was there.  It occurred to us

at once—which altered time thereafter.

By then we could not remember the before

before it had the after in it.

Before I sat down to write this post, I was outside in the dark in my pajamas, knocking ice and snow off my roof.  After I did that, I came inside, my boots and pants packed with chunks of winter, and changed into sweats.  Before and after.

Not exactly earth shattering, I know.  I’m tired and cranky, and my feet are icicles.  I’m ready for this day to be over.

But, before Saint  Marty signs off, he has a new poem to share.  And after that, he’s going to brush his teeth, find a cold pillow, and pray that sleep is his friend tonight.

Life of the Party:  A Limerick

by: Martin Achatz

There once was a poet named Marty

who was always the life of the party

reciting sonnets and odes

lightening everyone’s loads

‘til even Frost laughed and let out a farty.

December 30: Vogon Poetry, Three Wise Guys, Irving Berlin Kind of Night

Vogon poetry is of course the third worst in the Universe.  The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria . . . The very worst poetry of all perished with its creator, Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Greenbridge, Essex, England, in the destruction of the planet Earth.

This is Douglas Adams' take on intergalactic poetry culture.  It ain't a pretty picture.

Greetings, loyal disciples!

I am home, in the midst of a New Year's Eve eve snowstorm.  It blew in this morning and is supposed to last until the wee hours of tomorrow morning.  Predicted accumulations range anywhere from eight inches to 15 inches.  I'll be honest--I was hoping for 2019 going out quietly, like melting snow.  Instead, it's putting up quite a fight.  I should have expected that.  This year has been anything but friendly and cooperative.  It's like that person who shows up early for a party you're throwing and then just stays and stays and stays, making racist jokes and inappropriate comments about your daughter until every other guest leaves is disgust or embarrassment.

This evening, I'm supposed to be doing a poetry reading at my home church.  A little something I cooked up at the beginning of Advent because I love Christmas and have never read at an event for my parish family.  Despite the snowstorm, the show will go on.  There will be food and different wines to sample.  Plus, some good friends of mine who just happen to be fabulous musicians and singers are going to perform, as well.  Out of all the things I've done this Christmas season, I think I've been looking forward to this night the most.  (I like to think my poetry wouldn't make Douglas Adams' list of the worst poetry in the Universe.  After a few glasses of wine, I may even sound pretty good.)

Now, some of you out there may think that Christmas is over at the stroke of midnight on December 25.  Not so.  In Christian denominations, Christmas ain't over until the three wise guys show up.  So, if Larry, Moe, and Curly aren't at the manger, then crank up a little Bing Crosby "White Christmas" on the tunebox and suck down some more eggnog.  'Cuz the Nativity narrative isn't quite done yet.

I am about to whip up some queso dip for tonight's poetry shindig at the rectory.  I have a bottle of wine chilling in the fridge.  It's going to be a good night, whether four people or forty people show up.  Poetry, good music, and lots of Christmas cheer.  The snow just adds to the ambiance.  Now if I could only get Santa Claus to make an appearance.

Saint Marty is having an Irving Berlin kind of night.

December 13: Long Winter's Nap, Mary Jo Salter, "Advent"

I don't have a lot to offer tonight in terms of deep thought.  I'm going to leave that to Mary Mo Salter.

Saint Marty is ready for a long winter's nap.  Wake him up in 2018.

Advent

by:  Mary Jo Salter

Wind whistling, as it does   

in winter, and I think   

nothing of it until

it snaps a shutter off

her bedroom window, spins   

it over the roof and down

to crash on the deck in back,   

like something out of Oz.

We look up, stunned—then glad

to be safe and have a story,   

characters in a fable   

we only half-believe.

Look, in my surprise

I somehow split a wall,   

the last one in the house

we’re making of gingerbread.   

We’ll have to improvise:   

prop the two halves forward

like an open double door   

and with a tube of icing   

cement them to the floor.

Five days until Christmas,

and the house cannot be closed.   

When she peers into the cold

interior we’ve exposed,   

she half-expects to find   

three magi in the manger,

a mother and her child.   

She half-expects to read   

on tablets of gingerbread

a line or two of Scripture,   

as she has every morning   

inside a dated shutter

on her Advent calendar.   

She takes it from the mantel   

and coaxes one fingertip

under the perforation,   

as if her future hinges

on not tearing off the flap

under which a thumbnail picture   

by Raphael or Giorgione,   

Hans Memling or David

of apses, niches, archways,   

cradles a smaller scene   

of a mother and her child,

of the lidded jewel-box   

of Mary’s downcast eyes.   

Flee into Egypt, cries

the angel of the Lord   

to Joseph in a dream,

for Herod will seek the young

child to destroy him. While   

she works to tile the roof   

with shingled peppermints,

I wash my sugared hands   

and step out to the deck   

to lug the shutter in,

a page torn from a book   

still blank for the two of us,   

a mother and her child.