Christmas

My bro' and me, age five or so,
tight snug abed warm sole to sole,  
chattering what might Santa bring,  
wriggling giggling screeching out hymns  
as hot sweet spice rose from below...  
   
Outside the window's feathery glow  
of Jack Frost hid fresh falls of snow  
but oh, how we bounced those bed springs,  
my bro' and me...  
   
Toys and games things to bang and blow,  
a selection box new clothes and oh,  
will it be sledging snow, such things  
we discussed, red cheeked, wreathed in grins  
giddy then, Christmas tomorrow,  
For Bro', and me...

On Christmas Eve when slumbering    
and dreaming of some Bearded King,            
back when fairies bought a loose tooth  
(this as that child is my excuse,)    
I dreamt of gifts that HE would bring.        
        
Not peace on Earth and such dull things        
but pretty toys some pulled by string    
as for good will, I had no use,        
On Christmas Eve.        
          
For weeks and weeks I binged on whinge        
when my mouth opened, Ma would cringe,        
" I want want want " she took to booze...        
I guess I kinda blew her fuse,        
such thoughts, now, my memory brings,        
on Christmas Eve...

The spinning orb reflects a relaxation room,
dads in his favorite chair sleep will come soon,
Mum's in the kitchen with carcass and clutter
a festive table cloth, wine gravy and butter.
 
Crackers pulled and bellies popped,
karaoke crooner thankfully stopped,
dining room chairs needed to lounge,
tired out fairies turn tears into frowns.
 
Peanut nibble bowls, empty after eights
uncles slipped out again, a drink with his mates.
Granddad’s asleep still wearing his hat,
the one from his cracker, not the flat cap.
 
Presents in piles with paper just thrown,
dog stretched out full and starting to moan,
accordion accompaniment, everyone sings,
these are a few of my favorite things.

I saw my long dead parents in my dreams;
All scripture, spectacles, shortbread and tea.
That madness was their status quo, it seems,
As my less stately madness was for me.
But oh how high their grace and goodwill heaped
Along with the presents under the tree
Where the dangle branch tinsel season reaped
Silver scenes of serene infinity...
Sure to haunt me through my silvering years
Of ornamentation and colored lights
Scintillating through all the wineglass cheers
And welcome warmth of wassailing nights
Where phantasm adoring darkness hosts
The love of departed Yuletide ghosts!

Each Thanksgiving      
a Christmas Wish insert    
sponsored by the United Way    
accompanies our county's newspaper
  
It's an opportunity for local ‘Angels'      
to ease less-fortunate suffering      
     
Nothing out of the ordinary      
appeared from previous years—    
a meal, groceries, clothes, toys    
firewood, an affordable home    
help with utilities, a car      
and so forth      
     
until the request      
by an eight-year-old boy       
     
"A Bicycle Repair Kit"    
     
He wasn’t wishing    
for a brand new bicycle;      
but, a $2.00 repair kit      
to fix his old one’s flat      
     
I wasn’t sure      
what to think of that—      
was he appreciative      
for what he had;    
or, just taking care      
of what he owned—    
perhaps he was afraid      
to ask for more      
because he felt      
he hadn’t been good—    
maybe he'd been taught      
the quality of age;    
things aren't made      
like they were, after all      
     
I thought of Solomon    
who could've asked for anything    
his heart desired—    
but, wished only for wisdom      
to lead God's people instead;    
yet was gifted all things      
beyond his imagining      
because of humility    
     
Regardless, a new bike      
replete with repair kit      
is what this kid deserved—    
anonymously, of course;      
because Angels should remain just that:    
The Spirit of Christmas in disguise   
   miracles whose only name is Love—      
   proving the humble are worthy      
   of so much more      
   than imagined possible   
   or even wished for        
~

1964 - Second Tour
 
Christmas lights in Vietnam  
were automatic weapon fire  
 
blinking within the perimeter;  
While back home in America  
 
I broke the leg of my first Barbie  
bending it too far back, my cow-  
 
licked pixie at morning attention  
transmitting code-aviation across  
 
a cracked oatmeal bowl, a crippled  
doll, a divided country, an ocean,  
 
a continent, a gulf, a peninsula,  
and Cambodian border to intercept  
 
and slit the throats of ricocheted  
bullets fiercely craning their knives  
 
for my father, who was looking out  
over a munition's crate desk  
 
from his makeshift tent while writing  
me about duty and love, his feet  
 
rotting from jungle and words  
trailing with irony at the beauty  
 
of sparklers hopping toward him  
like a warm holiday memory;
 
Or, childhood nightmare of captured  
fireflies: forgotten POW's dying  
 
in a foreign country of glass jar  
beneath dirty clothes on his bedroom floor.    
 
~