I see them in reflections - the orange juice glass at breakfast or my iPhone where they can pop-up, like notifications - I keep my phone face down.

They usually want to tell you something - how it was for them - their history. I discount these emotional messages - they come with the jester's assumption that I care - that I need the performance and will get involved.

“What are you doing?” My mom asks, as I’m taking all the shiny, mirror-like ornaments off the Christmas tree.
“The glare gives me a headache” I say, without stopping.
“Your Grandma does that too”, she says, wiping her hands on a Santa-themed dishtowel.
“Really?” I say, but I know that, and I know why.

I started having nightmares, when I was in first grade. My mom thought I had an overactive imagination but when she described it to my grandma, she soon showed up for a visit.

Over the next few weeks my Grandma told me about our “gift”. About how we were both born on the same day, under a waning third moon, in Autumn. That we're both “Yins,” doxies (sweethearts) of the dead and that we could, at times, see and hear people who were between stops on their way to their afterlives.

That’s why the dead parachute into my unused moments from reflective surfaces. They can be anxious or in despair - when their deaths were cruel or sudden - but I'm barely an adult - I'm in school - what can I do??

The presence of water discourages them - which is perfect - can you imagine seeing spirits in the reflections of your bath? EEUUUWWW!  
You’ll hardly ever see me without a water bottle or polarized sunglasses - which seem to break up the images. I'll not be smothered in other people's afterlives.

The streets are dark,
on Christmas eve;
with none to rule & conquer darkness...
Staring at an abyss...thinking there's hope,
the long Halloween's nightmare lies still...
Snow slowly stranding shadows upon such a splendid slumber - this macabre alley presumed a plain phantasm.
The scent of chestnuts...flattered nothing but a bitter sweet souvenir;
even you...resemble a phantom of grief!
That terrace taught turmoil & tragedy,
on Christmas day;
all reunited to cherish cruelty & carve out hypocrisy from honesty...

~ A. Rose

to what end wrestle ye with spirits in truth,
not a true Jungian complex if we slip the knot,
now, who started the dispute about right useness?

Table manners at a Norman Rockwell reenactment.

As eldest, I let my peace, first comfort me,
then extend, as joy in truth is our strength to use,
facilitate wait to see, which chocolate each remembers
- it's me as the never has been grand father
- establishing the fact that life remains
as much like a box of chocolates
as any random chance choices
acting a fan of symbiology
on holiday l'chaim
made so by holy
symbolic life experience
changes in the Christmas story,

the one where Mary's matters,
she being Luke's prime source,
James the Wise's mother,

Mere and pure, indeed, one idea
peaceable at nomination, wise
at the taste oh, the beguilement,
we can make secrets, ours, alone,

eh, holy ordained layer on of hands,
no, holy transcriber of tongues,
there are enough inspired
utterances ex cathedra
ala Azusa Street, and radio

mind trust building framed information,
so greedy deep that to this day, knowers
feel the genuine pain of wasted peace,

invested in hate needed to consume
according to planned economic
impression therapy, reset…

wars
for old ignorances
of custom, fief fee fidelity

501 c3, proven non profit…

duty due the personal will to say why

right works and wrong does not…

to tell the whole Bible story, as imbedded
in a disciple
to the kind
of being we form, as
rowdy boys let run a little wild as
has been practice in war societies,

or has been so fictional-ated
as to make no never mind

what if, ai ag us on one eclipse
explanation, sheer luc, by any measure

You gather all your experience,
pick any 27 years,
in acquisition sequence

-------
I can remember thinking different…

-- what more can a rescuer Dad attempt,

temptation to avert a train wreck,
praying to be led away from adversity

endured, enjoyed remembered,
encouraged to let this mind be,

in you, be ye bond or free, be leaving

the lessoning about to be wished loose,
as one's equivalent knot, to a yoke,

broken in the acceptable fasts,
we agreed, let every yoke be broken,

set the captives free, enforce reality,

or else, enjoy making up your own mind,

given the exact same mind, liturgically,
as the blessing of wisdom settles on us,
as we witness the weform this mind takes

and we feel light headed.

Two thousand years and miles away
a foretold child was to poverty born.
A tyrant willed to keep his sway
and murdered children in his scorn.

The child would live to preach a love
that surpasses the smallness of our minds;
The despot now dwells in a dim-lit grove
of shattered urns and skeletal time.

That child became a man of words
which fell upon unhearing ears —
They twist his love to sharpened swords.
To a tree he’d be nailed: hyssop tears.

Yet though he too had died alone
like the despot who’d hunted him,
his message of love has only grown
in spite of new despots grim.

A tale of two kings in memory:
One turned to dust, one love’s victory.

The paper, with ** **s,
Lies crumpled on the floor.
The Santa wreath with berries,
Clings  haphhazardly on the door.
The darkling tree with heirloom baubles,
Will be tomorrow's chore.
I'll rise and go to bed now;
That's it. There is no more.

It doesn't change from year to years;
Behind my eyes, my happy tears,
Behind my lips, I smirk and smile,
Behind me lies this Season's sighs.

The following day I'll stow away
All semblance of this Christmas Day;
Pack up all my anticipations,
And closet my poor celebrations.
There disappointments and delights,
Are kept under wraps
When kept out of sight.

Yet, being a man of age and sage,
I know I will turn the page;
And begin again to wish and hope,
Making me a Christmas Dope.

He pulls on the sweater, unasked for, ill-fitting and probably itchy as hell, but he knows the ritual by now and pulls until his head births and he opens his eyes ready for the chorus of smiles and laughter, but they're not there.
It's dark and the scents and chimes of Christmas are gone, he's spinning and falling in a force 10 gale battered by the sound of breaking waves.  So he reaches out for an anchor; his hands sink into a hedgerow, prickly with Hawthorn entwined with Holly, but he can't pull away and the momentum thrusts him forward through the pain into a field of sunflowers which swing their heads to face him, accusing him of trespass.  That’s when he becomes aware of distant gun fire and what looks like a star falling towards him.  Their heads duck down, forcing him to his knees and he's on all fours, his hands deep in Aunt Maud's **** in front of the fire, his head ringing, shell shocked, shaking and weeping while the family help him up.
- Easy there, Sam, you okay?  You look like hell. –
He looks around for his aunt’s face, and she smiles.
- He'll be fine, it sometimes takes us a while after our emergence from Mid Yell.  It's my first attempt at a Mid Yell and Ukrainian mohair blend.  Bring him some water.  Sam dear, have a seat and make sure you come and find me when you want to take it off, but not for a while. You shouldn't Walk the Goat too often, it confuses the soul. –
His siblings stare, full of questions and relief for their scarves as he studiously ignores them, and stares into the fire, shivering, hands prickly, the gun shots resonating in his gut and the aroma of sunflowers filling his head, knowing he needs to find that star.