1. Advent

A riddle.
I’m what you enter before you’re let in,
Albeit that sounds a bit queer,
After a breach (postmodern sin),
I’m on to a net that won’t tear.
What am I?

2. Christmas

A riddle.
I’m such a tease.
I make your brain to spin.
I’m one of these
I am where this begins,
Puzzle and tiny, final piece,
Mystery and solution.
What am I?

3. Lent

A riddle.
You’ll never get inside of me.
Ecstatic, you’re without.
I’m yours, says all philosophy.
Deny me; never doubt.
I’m nothing you’ll ever own
Though I can be possessed.
You’ll shed me like a dressing gown
Yet know not nakedness.
What am I?

4. Good Friday

A riddle.
He kept it up:  “You know I’m born like this, right?”
Oh god, I thought, more it’s-all-good-my-truth.
“I mean, like why should I have to try and fight
With who I am if I just need to do it
A lot?  Same as some folks have a sweet tooth.”
But girls quit sweets to make themselves all pretty.
You take the sweet, life makes you pay the kitty.

She made us stop.  Half blocked our way.  Locked eyes.
God damn, I thought, you just can’t look at them.
You do, you’re trapped listening to needy lies.
Bread bereft cleft palate pooling phlegm,
Dark-stained hoody with some bloody emblem,
She swallowed air and belched, “Thank God it’s Friday.”
“Let’s compromise,” it read. “We’ll do it my way.”

5. Easter

A riddle.
I never lie. I never state a fact.
But I’m perpetually speaking.
I’m what a hopeful few are making
For critics to admire or attack.
I’m powerful.  I influence. I move.
But I have some anxious, self-doubt moments.
I may be true, but only “in some sense.”
And I could never rescue from the grave.

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