Mary,
a name that still lingers on the breeze,
like the soft rustle of autumn leaves
falling where the birds fly free.

I didn’t know you long,
but in that time,
you became more than a friend—
more than a passing figure
in a fleeting chapter of my life.
You became a grandmother,
and I loved you as such.

Your laughter,
a melody I still hear
when I close my eyes,
echoing through the years,
bright and warm,
like sunlight in winter.
You had a way with words,
with jokes that made the world
feel a little lighter.

Mary, Queen of Bucks, with beauty sharp as fate,
A painted smile, a poisoned crown, she’d wait.
From velvet lies to whispered tongues of power,
Her hand would grasp, and kingdoms would devour.

A tempest in a lace-edged gown, so sweet,
She danced upon the backs of men’s defeat.
Her lover’s eyes—how they bent to her whim,
Yet in her mirror, shadows grew so grim.

She wore her crown like thorns upon her brow,
For what is love if power’s taste is now?
In silks she moved, but in her veins ran gold,
A woman’s wrath, too dangerous to hold.

These are Christmas poems by Michael R. Burch. Some are darker Christmas poems and heretical Christmas poems. 

The First Christmas
by Michael R. Burch

’Twas in a land so long ago . . .
the lambs lay blanketed in snow
and little children everywhere
sat and watched warm embers glow
and dreamed (of what, we do not know).

And THEN—a star appeared on high,
The brightest man had ever seen!
It made the children whisper low
in puzzled awe (what did it mean?).
It made the wooly lambkins cry.