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Christmas Water Poems | Christmas Poems About Water

These Christmas Water poems are examples of Christmas poems about Water. These are the best examples of Christmas Water poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Kyrielle |

Welcome to my Home

Special welcome friend, come right in to my place of quiet serene. 
Welcome to my Holiday home at this special time of year.
Of Master’s love and your’s my friend  of wisdom’s grace may I glean,
 As we dismiss St Nicholas myth this Christmas season’s cheer.

Three water pots filled of water be ready, heart, soul and mind.
Welcome to my Holiday home at this special time of year.
Welcome is thy mouth,  of abundant life spout, pour in new wine.
We shall drink and be merry, wine of Sharon, on midnight clear.

Bright eyed of Christ mass, humbled children, these special gifts I would, 
welcome to my Holiday home at this special time of year.
I would this season of bliss would kiss, as the brotherhood should.
Often blossoms love and kindness in this blessed season cheer.

My humble dwelling my log cabin near lively stream of life,
welcome to my Holiday home at this special time of year.
Where the Lamb and Lion lie together having not any strife.
By  the virgin void my home serene came on a midnight clear!

Come fish with me in narrow strait beneath arch of heaven’s gate!
Welcome to my Holiday home at this special time of year,
my friends of late let us cleans the slate by dip in narrow strait.
A dip in peaceful river serene clears all the concept’s fear.

Corner stone, concepts rejection the same is heart protected.
Welcome to my Holiday home at this special time of year,
`Tis faith, love material erected, though minds rejected. 
Welcome! My eternal Christmas home, of paranormal cheer!

For contest: Holiday Home
Sponsored by Linda-Marie The Sweetheart of P.C.

Copyright © john freeman | Year Posted 2010


Details | Narrative |

December Rain

It is the middle of an unusually warm Connecticut December
dark drizzly deep afternoon.

Drizzly wait,
not long before her hungry needy kids return from school,
she props herself against back porch wall,
knees up,
peering out 
listens to wonder how her life is the same,
and different,
compared to this river flowing surely and widely
but silently south behind their backyard,
while the river of cars in front
shuttle up and down the state highway's over-fueled Advent traffic,
punctuated with violent horn blasts,
or perhaps warmly intended "Hello"s, "I'm passing by...."

Passing.
Water toward the south Sound,
carbon-eaters to her back,
across the front yard Advent
of early evening's commercial family business,
industry,
institutions for competing commodification
flowing stealthily and syncopatedly impatient toward,
and then by-passing away.

By-passing,
messiah's mass faltering
to sing in her faithful
but worn thin heart and air,
hoping her river loves co-redemptive Sounding ocean
even more than busy motors 
surging through more urgent toxic time
invest to completely commercialize
this Birthing Wonder's self-purgative sacred flow
into co-therapeutic nature.

Flow,
transubstantiating home and families
into consumer markets
float down her river of mid-December's discontent
with waiting.

Discontent,
gloaming river fog
spreads miraculously radiant around one uninvited yellow street light,
waits for her family's bus
to deliver this December night's transforming birth.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2015

Details | I do not know? |

celsius

Fallen snow will remind of me/ it is snowing ... 
Slowly as in the dream/ 
Boy word-beads/ with signs on his spine/ 
He kisses fine/ 
Your eyelids /

And it snows ... It snows /so slow/
It does/ and you're thinking of me/ 
'Coz it's warm/ it's better to stay in warmth/ 
Waiting for summer dim/ 
It is snowing/ slowly like in the dream/ 
Flakes/ go round/ playing the music theme/ 
You've been looking for rescue/ 
You searched in wine/ 
But it's in me/ 
all the rescues are mine/ 
It is snowing/ the snow is fluffy and white/ 
If you see darkness/ I'm deaf and blind/ 
there's the cast of time/ on the arm/ 
But I discern the light/ 
Dreams/ upon your eyelids tips/ 
Prepare you for winter drowse/ 
And it snows/ 

Fallen snow/ will remind of spring /
it will crumble and crackle in vain/ 
It will snow / fluffy /white/ and slow/ 
And you'll become whole/

Copyright © Ilya Emelin | Year Posted 2013


Details | I do not know? |

Dark Christmas

3 am.
The alarm clock in my head wakes me with a 
silent clanging.
Outside, the rain is falling so hard. It sounds like someone's
trying to break into my room.
Jesus.
It's Christmas Day.
It might as well be August 25th because the conversation in my head has not changed
since then. "You are a piece of shit."
I think of things I need to worry about, things I've worried about since August 25th and way before that.
My anxiety runs through my veins like hot chemo.
I stagger to the living room and stare at the half-decorated Christmas tree ...
gold balls weighing down one side. Empty green takes up the other. Oh, there are two figurines of kittens that I bought at a garage sale in Staten Island in 1998.
God. 3:10 am.
A whole day to spend by myself.
Not a fake friend in sight today, with their banal conversations about picking up their laundry or meeting at the gym at whatever time to do arms or back.
Just as well; I get a blank stare from them when I want to talk about chasing happiness or being childless at 53.
The TV is my savior. It pulls me out of myself.
Bing Crosby comes on singing "White Christmas." He's dancing
with those two impossibly shiny bleached blondes. And they all have those white, almost blue American teeth -- not one out of place.
12 pm.
I wake up on the couch and "White Christmas" is still playing; it must be a marathon.
Outside, the rain has turned to snow and there are two messages on my phone -- from Christian friends inviting me to their houses for the day.
It's tough being a Buddhist on Christmas. OK, so I know, as the Buddhists say, everything is OK as long as I let it be OK.
But this is one day of the year I don't want to "be."
I consider whether to shower. It takes 10 minutes to decide. I let the hot water run down my back, and I don't know if it's burning from the water or my nerve endings.
I don't want to face Christmas - but I have decided to join life and go to Cory's to see his kids, stare at the tree and eat some turkey.
I decide to take a Xanax, and I stick one in my pocket as assurance.
Maybe some of this gloom will yet lift from my heart.

Copyright © don munro | Year Posted 2012

Details | Free verse |

Living Water

Sore feet, long lists
Lost time, large bills
Just to find the perfect gift
That will probably break or be lost too soon
Christmas parties, gift exchanges
Choir concerts, ballet recitals
Is this all that Christmas is?
Or have we perhaps lost our focus?
And in the hours spent at the mall
Maybe we've forgotten why we celebrate
And maybe if we'd open our eyes 
To what the songs are saying
We might realize 
That the perfect gift
Doesn't come from a shopping mall
But is rather a lifelong impact
To provide Living Water
And save a life

Copyright © Victoria Elisha | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |

Christmas in Perspective

The rooster crows early in the Zambian morning.

With subtle sunlight starting to appear on the Horizon, ten year old Dikembe begins 
has journey to gather water for the family from the Luapula River.

With water buckets balanced on the ends of a bamboo stick he carries across his 
shoulders, Dikembe returns to find his Mother starting a fire to fix a sparse 
breakfast for her three children.  The morning sun already beats down on the dusty 
village now alive with life.  The ever present flies are already pestering Dikembe and 
the sores on his limbs.

Dikembe sees the white man on the horizon entering the village by foot, carrying his 
bag of medicines.

Women and children start to form a line at the small hut he will use as his office on 
this day.  For hours, the white man examines one patient after another, 
administering what little medicine he has and offering healthcare advice that he 
knows is not understood and/or will go unheeded.

Dikembe sits in the corner of the hut, watching it all with curiosity.

At the end of the long day, the white man packs up his bag, walks over to Dikembe 
and hands him a piece of gum.  Dikembe smiles and mumbles, “Thank you” in broken 
English.

As he puts the piece of gum into his mouth, Dikembe remembers the stories one
 white man once read to him from a book called the bible, and he thinks, “I love,
 Christmas.  I hope it is this nice again next year.”

Copyright © Joe Flach | Year Posted 2010