In Winter Poem by Jim Boone

The Mummers come marching
Saxes, banjos, accordions and
Decked out men in sequins and feathers
After football has been bowled superbly
And Mardi Gras follows spectacularly
On Galveston Island, near Texas
And in the French Quarter
At the heart of New Orleans.

Can I recite my poetry and be believed?
If I say my prayers, will they be received?

There are far too many ‘facts’ for
Anyone of good, or bad, intent to 'face’
Too many metaphors to decipher
Not enough gumption to just ‘do good’
For the warmth of it in the ‘cool’, ‘cold’, ‘burr’
Of the Winter of our isolation from California
And Florida beaches, if we could, or wanted to
Go there rather than snuggling with ‘true love’
While dreaming of Spring, Summer and Fall.

In Winter I decorate for the celebrations
Of the heart and mind, soul and physical glee
As life is reviewed, ‘the saints come marchin’ in’
And one ‘holy night’ now translates to great debt
As well as interpreted hypocrisy in mass, not individually.

The Mummers are marching as we all pickup
Their music and beat from the streets of today
With our faith, resiliency, good will renewing of
Heart-felt brother/sisterhood that warms
Our senses of caring and philanthropy
In our own way, in Winter.