Christmas Fire
If Christmas is Peace, then what’s all this stress!
Shopping and parties—the house is a mess!
I’m looking for peace; I’m watching the tree;
I’m listening to songs; I’m drinking hot tea.
I’ve stoked up the fire; I’ve got my shoes off;
I’ve come back from church. I sat in the loft.
The sermon was dull; the choir sang flat.
When everyone left, I silently sat …
… sat looking for peace
in what just transpired;
I sat uninspired.
I’m now by my fire.
Its glow falls upon an old manger scene
with wise men and shepherds and camels and sheep.
And she seems at peace, but that is a farce!
If all that was true, I would have spit darts!
Unless, unless, the look of the child
showed there’d be in him no future of guile?
To see what’s ahead and know there’s no sin,
and know that my child would never give in
would give peace to me. Yes, knowing his soul
was come from my womb would make me feel whole.
The peace in her face reflects from her boy
and glows with my fire. Could this be pure joy?
My fire’s now low and my bed calls my name,
but after this Christmas I’ll ne’er be the same.
An Old Soldier’s Christmas
The chill of Christmas was frozen upon the old and grizzled face
as he sat alone beneath a tree in a foreign, distant place.
Alas! Alas! ‘Twas not always so. He was once so debonaire;
he charmed the damsels and led their men – the Parisian Legionnaires.
The grandest battle was fought on sand with swords and muscle and verve;
he’d led his men into an ambush, but didn’t lose his nerve.
They rallied to him as foes let loose a fusillade from bows.
They dug in the sand and few were scathed by the flight of silent arrows.
He was first to charge as they reloaded, and he cut down two with one stroke;
his men took nerve and charged with him – his courage their own did stoke.
The routed the foes who were sorely surprised by bravery, doing and dare.
And they went on to win many a campaign, but to this one, none did compare.
The war now done, he was assigned to train Parisian recruits.
But the officer in charge did resent him – a warrior of repute.
That officer spent the war at home, and felt his command diminished.
So he made the warrior a paper-pusher to let him know he’s finished.
His last day was cold, and he merely walked out without ceremony
as the officer in charge spent Christmas abroad to avoid acrimony.
The old soldier sat neath Notre Dame in a Paris that’s no longer home;
the fallen leaves were blown by the wind and covered his doleful moan.
The Christmas bells rang loud and long, and his thoughts pondered the one
who was left long ago by his mates and loved one to die with the setting sun.
He envied him who died while young while people still would mourn;
but he sat there alone, unknown, bereft, with all his dignity shorn.
As the river slipped by, he prepared to die, but a hand touched his back.
‘Twas Juliette, who had once loved him, who was also at her last.
They talked and shared their miseries and slipped them down the Seine.
The Christmas bells now rang with joy – two dejected soles were saved.
A Christmas Invitation
There is a Christmas party on the other side of town
with a lot of noisy music and a Santa who’s a clown.
But the kind of Christmas party that I’m having on this day
is a quiet one with candles and with carols softly played.
I’ll read the Christmas story and another one or two.
It’ll be a luscious party with spiced tea, mulled and brewed.
My pine tree softly twinkles through my window on the snow;
the firelight gently crackles; a north wind crisply blows.
Please join me in my party — there’s a soft chair just for you.
Let’s have a merry Christmas and start the year anew!
A Santa’s Sacrifice
“I’d like a dolly and a kitty and a bike with training wheels.
For my brother, a computer and a high-tech fishing reel.”
As the next child mounts his lap she says, “I want my own TV.”
And a hundred children more are in the line to tell their needs.
But the man in the red costume holds two other jobs besides:
he’s trying to earn money for a child who’ll likely die.
Insurance will not pay—they insist there is no cure.
But in this modern age, is there truly not a cure?!
“Santa, Santa, please bring to me
a magical cure for this winter disease.”
At crack of dawn, he’s off to work his other exhausting jobs;
just late at night he’s with her. When she sleeps, then he sobs.
The doctors and the lawyers take the money that he earns
as his candle quickly dwindles as both ends are being burned.
“A puzzle and a Teddy, and a ton of other loot,
with surprises and stuffed stockings and a fist of cash to boot!”
The man in the red costume looks into their parents’ eyes,
and he wonders if they care if a daughter’s soon to die.
“Santa, Santa, please! Oh, please!
Stop the sharp pain of this winter disease!”
The doctors and the lawyers and his late wife’s mother, too,
criticize the mourning man who wore that red costume.
His daughter died on Christmas Eve while he was at a store
acting as the jolly Santa so the shoppers would buy more.
But his daughter left a note, which he showed to no-one else.
In her dying last few moments she had a burst of health.
Though she passed away alone, alone she knew his love –
she knew he worked to save her, and she’s smiling now above.
“Santa, Daddy, your love I understand.
Love worked in you to save me–
Yes, your love now holds my hand.”
She wrote those words and passed away with her pen still in her hand.
White Snow of God
White snow of God thy advent brings
the hope of all things bright.
You glide as soft as angel wings –
our spirits join thy flight.
At times you you whirl, at times you fall
for moments froz’n in time;
Thy Christ’ning lures one and all
thy glist’ning hills to climb.
In a twinkle, in a frenzy
swept way are you by gloom;
Often in you mortal men see
the fall which spelled their doom.
Dark soot of Sheol blots snow and sun
and seeks to scourge thy grace
by black’ning our redemption won
with cares of time and space.
Come thousand, no ten thousand picks
thy way of light to break –
O thousand and ten thousand nicks
upon thy crystal lake.
And we in solemn hope despair
that you must evanesce;
Our earthbound dreams and hopes impair
death’s vision of success.
Sheol’s pick and broom and vile smoke stack
thy end can never bring;
For in thy death you do him smack –
you sink to bring forth spring.
White snow of God now us revive
with wits to face the foe;
Melt deep within and make alive
the seeds our deaths do sow.
And when thy snow becomes a stream
and white turns into green,
The myst’ry of our hope and dream
blooms in this Paschal scene.