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new year reflection two

12/31/2018

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new year reflection two
(with thanks to Sam, and June)

i wasn’t in a very good mood:
thinking about family, thinking about
all the work that didn’t get done, and
the ridiculous pile of wrapping paper.

then you laid your head on my lap
curls jumping in all directions.
you wanted me to look at your sketchbook.
i was not prepared
for your insistence
that i look:
really look.

i didn’t, mostly.
but tonight those
teals and pinks
are rioting my mind.
you are eleven.
all the possibilities are out there.
you open their wire bound spine
and hand them to me.

i am officially over forty.
all the possibilities
are out there.
orange and sienna and shocking green.
something taking shape.
i will dream loudly
and in color.

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morning after Christmas poem

12/26/2018

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turning

when you open the story of your hurt
you might be left alone
chewing the words like sand.
it’s ok.
one day you will wake up
and the sand will have dissolved like bread.
you will sing the light back into the world.
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still waiting

12/20/2018

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still waiting
(advent poem two)

i bought all the presents
careening through target
three times
cringing at each total.
i ordered with expedited shipping.
i argued with my love
about what qualifies as ridiculous.
i sped across town in the dark to get that
one
last
thing.

i’ve been pondering
how to get my family,
with their flip flops
and tangled curls,
into decent clothes for church.

i hate christmas.

i wish i could just take jesus out for beers
next week, call mary on sunday.
or hell, i’ll host a party
with stars in the piñata,
i make excellent punch.

i am waiting
to feel the spirit, again,
the one who got lost
in aisle nineteen
as i was yelling
god dammit
because the man in the puff coat
just got the last hundred dollar crock pot.

and then she snuck up on me
this morning
at five a.m.
while sleep was still stuck
under my eyelids.
i remembered
in a few days
i am going to tell a sanctuary full of children
the improbable
story, that i actually believe,
of mary in the cold dark
birthing jesus,
and the light that finds the deepest cracks.

i am waiting
to watch their widening eyes
behind the tangled curls
as they fidget in scratchy dresses
and too tight suit jackets.
i am waiting
for the opening
of dangerous possibilities.









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teaching writing

12/11/2018

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teaching writing

every day i stand outside
a different door
and breathe.
today, maybe
i will make no mistakes.

likely not.

likely today i will misplace
the file, forget
her name, miss that planning meeting.

today i will stare across the table
after you’ve spoken your deepest hurt
and all i will be able to say is
thank you.

thank you
for opening up your mistakes
so that we can see the possibility in them.
thank you
for damning the violence done to you
without damning yourself.
thank you
for tossing that memory into the circle
so we all taste your mother’s tamales,
or cup of noodles with hot sauce,
​or burnt pancakes.


i cry a lot.
more and more as i get older
i can’t contain the truth,
it pours out of me
saline on the page.

i hold their notebooks
away from my body.
there are dangerous phrases in here,
they could overthrow something.
i sneak them out in my arms.

later i put on an apron
and an old shirt.
working in the dirty sink
i break the words
so the pain comes out.

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advent

12/3/2018

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advent

i am in love
with the empty church
an hour before the service
while the chairs are still stacked
and the coffee just begins to bubble.
the altar is covered in a blue cloth,
the spotlight is off.

jesus
has breath held,
hoping the guests arrive.
we row the chairs,
stack the hymnals.
they begin to enter,
pressed pants and sparkly shoes.
good morning.
a small hand in a larger, rougher one.
a cane scrapes the floor.
a gorgeous hat,
a wide smile.

these weeks before christmas
we say we are waiting
for the light
to be born into the world,
for the first cry,
the infant sigh.
but mornings like this I think
the light is already here.
we are waiting til we’re ready
to open our eyes.

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    dani gabriel
    ​poet/writer

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