Maria Scott Herndon: Fabric Of Being

  We are not quite knowing how to feel. It just isn’t clear. We're numb from this continuing tragedy. Can we feel fear? Now the whole world waits with nowhere to hide. The rising death-toll crescendos, just like that rising tide, Now years pass as the virus sucks our collective breath. No one is spared; dreams and loved ones succumb to death. We ride the surges and waves of this black wicked water Only to be left scared and sorrowful; lambs to the slaughter. Imagination can't picture what each victim felt and has to face, Our loved ones are suddenly gone and impossible to replace. Grand inequity threads throughout all our attempts to thrive. This is a global threat. Without fairness we will never arrive. Many say that time heals, but will our hearts remain lost? Can we find our way, move forward? But at what cost? Fright and rage scream both silently and out loud. Young and old taken by an evil smothering cloud. Nobody is spared. There is more sick, always more and more. More t...

Take down all your troubles, And wrap up your regrets. Tie them to the rays of light, The sun sheds as it sets, Whisper all that was, To fleeting seconds as they pass. But hold onto your hope, For something new is here at last. Beg your own forgiveness, And then grant it in one breath. Lay the year down softly, As it waits to fear its death. Then sit with eyes turned skywards, As the night-time comes alive. All that's been is over, And a new year has arrived.

  Inside a ramshackle house, before a dying fire, a weathered armchair stood. The man called Santa was staring into the flames, nursing a half empty glass of vodka. His white beard was stained and his red robes were faded. He nudged the embers remaining in the fireplace back to life. Eventually, he gave up. Throwing the poker away, Santa took a healthy swig of liquor. The vodka burned in his belly. "Boss?" Santa peered owlishly at the little elf standing in the doorway. "Ah, Bernard." He slurred. "Did you bring the list?" From a tiny pocket, Bernard pulled out an even smaller book. When he handed it to the drunken saint, the minuscule manuscript expanded into a massive written tally with gold lettering. The not-so-jolly man ran his hands over the cover with reverence. "Thank you. This is just what I needed." Opening the magic book, Santa ripped out some sheets and tossed them into the fireplace. Bernard winced with each torn page. "Will t...