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Prose Poetry Christmas Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Christmas

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

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Details | Prose Poetry |

The Day After Christmas

On the day after Christmas, they started appearing,
cast out of houses, stripped of their finery,
lying crooked in the gutter, garbage bags flanking.

My brothers and I walked to school
and halfway there, three blocks away,
was a steep ravine called The Hollow.
A place of some dark mystery in summer,
one hundred feet deep and forbidden land
according to most parents, The Hollow
sang its song to all neighborhood kids.

Returning to school after Christmas,
my brothers and I would drag the discarded
Christmas trees along the sidewalk and onto the bridge
that spanned The Hollow, then heave them over the railing,
watching their graceful tumble earthward, 
their air brushing final fall.

"Hey, I used to do that too!" Donnie was a lot older,
almost done with high school, and his walk took him
right by our elementary school - he laughed to see us
hauling the trees to that concluding bridge.
He grabbed a large one, bigger than any of us could handle,
and upon the bridge had us help him hold it upright on the railing,
as it stood in life, as it looked down upon Christmas gifts;
we watched it slowly lean into Gravity,
watched the balletic descent into silence.

Donnie kept with us that first month into the new year,
the pile of trees growing in the bottom of The Hollow.
He told us things, we told him things,
we asked him things and he told us more.

My brothers and I still talk about that big tree
on the railing of the bridge over The Hollow.
It hit right on top of the pile of other trees
and bounced off to the side, its own special place.

As January wore on, we didn't find as many trees,
and ultimately it was all done.  
Eventually the school year too was done,
and then more years, and school itself was done.
The trees at the bottom of The Hollow rotted away to nothing.
Somewhere in there my mom told me that Donnie
had been shipped off to war, killed within a few weeks.
We had that one magic month.

December 25, 2016

For Anthony Slausen's contest - 'The Day After Christmas'

Copyright © Doug Vinson | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |


A HOME I never knew a home; Christmas, any holiday were words, merely words. Looking from the outside in. A child, seeing lights, balls, trees, presents, but most of all: family life. Warm feelings coursing me, A longing so unknown, A wish so deep, a wish to be. Only, I still don't. Winter used to be cold, inside and out. The house an unfriendly place. Feeling like a visitor, A child, craving warmth of family life. Wanting to belong somewhere. Silent words on paper form A longing deeply seated. Inside all my feelings storm, Melting hearts, heated This year I have a home; my sister embraces me to her house and her family. No more outside, but in. For once a child, and I can stay and I can celebrate and enjoy family life Small tokens in my happy hands. Wrapping paper, tape, smiles, Christmas tree, love lands. Peace, after years of trials. *** 8th place in contest: THE HEART OF CHRISTMAS Sponsor: Mystic Rose

Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |


DECEMBER 2015 - "For what is our hope, our joy, or the crown, in which we glory in the presence of our Lord Jesus when He comes?" 1 Thessalonians 2:19

This year America waits,
With great anticipation.
For peace, love and joy,
Throughout the nation.

Christians are under attack,
For what is in their heart.
Hatred fills the air,
Our nation torn apart.

Death in our schools,
Murder on the streets.
Hurry, Jesus, we pray,
Before their goal is complete.

Freedom Religion,
A promise written true.
Not it's only if you follow theirs,
Christians know not what tio do.

We read more every day,
How we must suffer for His Cause.
Evil ones in control,
they pass the laws.

There was a time in history,
It was so long ago.
God sent His Only Son,
To teach us how to go.

In a humble stable He was born,
Written Word said it would be.
People given a reason to believe,
Praised Him in songs of victory.

We are lost without His son,
The Bright Star for all to see.
Please give us another sign,
To set Your People free.


Copyright © Raymond Morgan | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Christmas 2005 in Iraq with MiTT 2-2-2

One or two of us
Were home on leave;
For the rest of us,
Christmas came by mail.

Our callsign: Gunslingers.
Our Military Transition Team
Was embedded with 
The "Triple Deuce" Iraqi Infantry,

For a year our home
Was LSA Diamondback
Mosul, Nineveh province,
In northern Iraq

A Team member's wife
Gave us all Santa hats.
I have an old photo
Of us standing on top
Of an old Iraqi bunker,
Bearing pistols, rifles,
And those Santa hats.

My wife sent a small
Plastic Christmas tree,
Which was decorated 
In the Gunslingers' office.

My mom sent a warm quilt.
When you're acclimatized
To wearing battle armor
In the high 90s and 100s,
80-something feels cold!

I remember the nights--
Dark, but full of stars,
With Orion's belt
On the horizon.

Soldiers made bonfires
In the oddest places:
By a concrete shelter,
Or in classified burn pits.

Once exiting my office,
I saw a fire in the sky.
Soldiers were on top of a bunker
Drinking near-beer, singing.

Another night, I stood 
Just outside of the light
Looking at some troops,
And the chiaroscuro image.

I went back to my "choo",
And penciled the scene.
To complete the masterpiece,
I inserted myself
Roasting marshmallos.

I went back to visit them,
Showed them the drawing,
Then completed the picture
By searing a marshmallow.

Christmas was what we made of it.

Copyright © Mark J. Halliday | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

I won't be Home For Xmas

I won't be home
not For Christmas
nor for funerals
not for birthdays
Wanted to never see you
on those days so hard to get through.

When you abandoned the sweetness
and chased your dream into the alley
When you thought it best to see me cry

When your mind changed with the direction of the wind 
I stood there with spit on my finger tips...
holding my hand in the air,Waiting for the winds of hope
to blow your love and loyalty in my direction

Home is a strange city
where no one knows me.
where no one will invite me to sit across the table
and try to smile as I play with my stuffing on china with flowers
As I remember the children laughing and opening gifts.
I remember the long silent ride back to our house.

I think back when I got on my knees
before climbing into our cold bed 
The prayers just uttered coming back void.
Ask God to just let you touch me again
I needed your body-heat to keep warm.
I needed your support to continue on 
for the sake of the commitment.

For the sake of waiting for love to remind you
Even if pity could hold you there..
I would not be ashamed of what you sacrificed
When love had given birth to pity-
I would have held on without pride.

Now I never want to come back to that town.
Where no one cares that you don't love me.
I am in remission.
Alone but it's OK.
Please tell our future to visit me. 
On the seashores. 
The sun warms me in
my new home 
where no one knows me.
All my old friends are 
dead and dying.So...

I won't be home
not For Christmas
nor for funerals
not for birthdays
Wanted to never see you
on those days so hard to get through.

Just my spirit and the ocean.
and one day tell our grandchildren
Grandma will be here walking;
With one finger in the air moistened with spit.
to see which way the wind blows.

Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Victorian Christmas

Father Christmas is in the night sky his sleigh and reindeer a silhouette in the moonlight,
He has traveled all over the world to lavish his presents to small sleeping children,
A family has retired and left a mince pie and some sherry, the little ones dreaming,
Mr. Christmas climes up and down chimneys leaving special gifts it is a magical time.

Earlier on this Christmas Eve, many excited little children on their little tippy toes,
Straining to place their stocking high on the front room wall away from nosy grey rats,
Some scarcely reach higher than these rats, frantic that sweets will have bites in them
Older brothers and sisters unhook the stockings and pin them higher up, out of the way

Mother has sat them round a table and coaxed them off to their beds earlier than usual,
Told them all about the story of Christmas and why it is such an important special day,
They sat there wide eyed listening to every word the very young not understanding it all,
There faces rosy from the heat of a yule log burning in the hearth and everything quiet.

They understand that Father Christmas only visits very good and well behaved children,
And the children feel guilty as they cast their mind back over the last very long year,
The children find it hard to hold their tongues hoping Father Christmas won't ride past,
And that if they go to bed without any moaning and go to sleep early he will be very kind.

Laying in their beds can they hear the the sound of whistles, penny-trumpets and drums,
They squeeze their eyes shut tight, just in case it is Father Christmas flying nearby,
A wind blows the downstairs door could that be the reindeer's and the sleigh flying past,
Gradually they tire and one by one drop into a deep sleep the sort only known by children.

In their sweetest dreams they hear the cries of dolls, singing wooden birds, gold ribbons,
The ticking of pewter watches looked at by the rag dolls, toy soldiers guarding oranges,
They are asleep and so very happy the emblems of innocence, at peace on this Christmas Eve,
And when the morning finally comes they are loaded with beautiful gifts it's Christmas Day.

Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Happy Christmas Poetsoupers

                                                                        and pray,
                                                                       let there be 
                                                                   light where there 
                                                                is gloom, let there be 
                                                             love where  hatred stalks. 
                                                         Realise hope  when despair 
                                                      overtakes our day, walk in honesty 
                                                   and truth, carry the shadows of kindness 
                                                 and humility throughout your life. Be gentle 
                                             of heart to family and loved ones, be tolerant of 
                                           faith and thoughts of fellow man. Be akin with others
                                         less fortunate than ourselves, be humble in the eyes of
                                        your God. Hold the memories of those passed, distant or
                                     on duty dearly, on this birthday of all birthday's pray for the 
                                    infant child of all nations. Peace and your God be with you all.
                                                  Happy Christmas and a brilliant New Year


Copyright © Daniel Cheeseman | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Silver Sixpence

On a cold frosty night the moon hung in the dark sky like a silver sixpence,
Waiting for a bus that seemed to be hours late, wind dried my face I was cold,
While leaning on the stop sign I could see into rooms through lighted windows,
All seemed warm and cosy Christmas Trees glowed and fairy lights went on and off.

Decorations hung from ceilings they were all colours gold, silver, reds and blue,
Black and white televisions told everyone about cold weather outside on the news,
People walked past windows wearing short sleeved jumpers, children smiled happily,
It was Christmas Eve, and somewhere in the background I could hear Slade singing.

In house windows and on mantle pieces hyacinths blossomed the mingled with the tree,
There were crocuses and Dutch and Florentine tulips adding to the splendor of a room,
Best tables were on show piled with egg-nogg and bottles of cream soda and lemonade,
Stockings full of chocolate, crunchies, buttons and a white milky bar hung on walls.

Open fires roared fed by copper coal scuttles mum and dad celebrated with a Babycham,
A glass of Sandymans Port sipped by the grand parents all laughing enjoying themselves,
Then in the cold night air I could hear an engine struggling up a hill to my bus stop,
A green double decker windows glowing stopped and I got on, I silently wished my window
Friends a happy Christmas.

Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Christ Child

In eternity past, the Father asks the Son to go down.
Having equal Love for humans the "Yes" comes fast.
When Creation leads to time, the world waits for 4 BC
Marking the start of the end of Satan's long rule at last.

Did Satan laugh at the poor setting for Jesus' birth here?
A cry in a cave for animals pierces the night, changing all.
Shepherds worship; later wise kings give precious gifts.
Mary and Joseph marvel, yet Herod's rage soon gives a call.

A call to leave quickly to Egypt where they'll live as refugees.
Sparing the Christ child a merciless death of those under three.
When Herod finally dies, Jesus' parents head back to Israel.
Still not fully safe from mad rule, Nazareth is their destiny.

Here the child will grow to be a man, following His parents rule.
Surprising the Pharisees with His wisdom at 12, at 30 riling them.
Preaching with authority, healing the incurable, loving the humble.
Women weep repenting at his feet; one's healed by touching his hem.

Zacchaeus risks going into a tree and finds Jesus' salvation so free.
Nicodemus comes at night to ask and ends amazed he's met God's Son
The Woman at the Well gets far more vital water than the usual kind.
And many healed can't but tell others of the miracle God has done.

The babe in the manger now stills the storm and his disciples believe
Even seeing the dead arise, like Lazarus in the tomb for four days.
Foretelling a greater rising coming but not before immense suffering.
The sword Mary was told would pierce her heart is soon on its way.

For most religious leaders cannot tolerate Jesus' lack of respect for them.
Calling them whitewashed tombs and pointing pride out to Pharisees.
Not endearing Himself with the establishment, but following God's way.
Knowing soon He'd be betrayed, arrested, tried and tortured brutally.

Still, he calmly feeds them body bread and blood wine in a final feast.
Tells them the Spirit comes, and prays they'd be one like Father and Son.
Heads to the Garden, prays to His Father for another way if possible.
Your will be done ends and the soldiers come and with Judas kiss it's done.

The most pure, innocent Man who's ever lived is now in hostile hands.
A trial by dark without witness or any rights – and off to Pontius Pilate.
Then Herod then back to Pilate whose wife dreamed Jesus was innocent.
But the people's cries to crucify win over – Jesus caught in intrigue's net.

The child of Bethlehem now hung on a Cross between two criminals.
The Light of the World by darkness and our sins is being slowly slain.
Feeling forsaken by God, but then "Into Your hands I commit my spirit."
Reunited and soon to show the world that this Child was no ordinary one.

Risen as Jesus predicted, for how can death conquer everlasting, perfect life?
From childhood to adult not one sin, not once yielding to Satan's temptations.
Proving we can have life eternal if we confess and believe in Jesus as our Savior.
Calling His followers in risen form to await the Spirit and share Christ to the nations

Copyright © Scott Bronner | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Holiday Poem

A Holiday Poem

Mom and I went shopping at the mall
When we got there I saw a tree standing so tall.
I couldn’t believe all the decorations and lights
Decorations and lights that were oh so bright.

A few presents were under the tree
And I saw a small girl sitting on Santa’s knee.
She was telling Santa all of her wishes
A toy kitchen and maybe some play dishes.

As we walked on by I started to think
Does every child get to see Santa’s magical wink?
Are there any other holidays this time of year
Or is it just Christmas that brings families near?

Christmas isn’t just about a plump man with rosy, red cheeks
And gifts under a tree that might say don’t peek.
This day is to honor a baby boy born
A baby that is so loved and very adorned

Mom tried to explain different traditions this way.
You see Chanukah, a Jewish holiday lasts for seven days
A gift is given to each person each day of the week
The Star of David shines brightly for all who seek.

Kawanzaa an African-American holiday is one more
Celebrating a heritage with clothing that’s colorful and so much to adore
A holiday that brings awareness to all
No matter our color we should all stand tall

Don’t forget those who are homeless this night
They cling on to each other ever so tight
They might not have a tree with all the lights
When they look in the sky, stars are twinkling so very bright

Some might not have gifts to give to each other
But think of the love given to your parents, sister and brother
So much is happening during this season
No matter the day you don’t need a reason.

Enjoy all that you have, be it big or small
And Happy Holidays to one and all!!!

By Barbara Poor

Copyright © Barbara Poor | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Paws For Christmas


The tree stood straight,
It looked so nice.
Even had shiny things,
To look like ice.

A star on the top,
Was special to see.
Plus the lights and toys,
Filled our hearts with glee.

A package or two,
Were placed on the floor.
For family and guests,
To see and adore.

Then the puppy came close,
What did he see?
What is that shiny thing on his nose,
From the Christmas tree.

How did the ornament so bright,
Get down on the floor?
I bet this puppy could tell you,
As he ran for the door.

What are these teeth marks,
On the package we see?
A gift from our puppy,
Under the tree.

But we take it in stride,
And hug the old mutt.
For it's his Christmas too,
but "stay out of the nuts".


Copyright © Raymond Morgan | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

Things To Give Away

Tarny was a little bear 
A teddy bear he be 
Coat was as white as snow 
To this we all agree 
Tarny was a Christmas gift 
Given to a lady fair 
Was sent by her Tarnished Knight 
How she wished that he was there 
Tarny wore a little coat 
Where pinned upon his sleeve 
A note from her Tarnished Knight 
Said "will you read me please " 
"Sorry I can't be with you 
On this Christmas day 
I know its very hard for you 
That I'm so far away" 
"So I am sending Tarny 
For you to now embrace 
I will be there very soon 
Then I will take his place" 
"Tarny has a special gift 
He'll make your dreams come true 
Just close your eyes and make a wish 
You will see what he can do" 
Tears now flowed from her eyes 
Squeezing Tarny oh so tight 
Closed her eyes and made wish 
To dream of the Tarnished one tonight 
That was some time ago 
In another Christmas past 
Once there was hopes and dreams 
Somehow they didn't last 
Tarny now is put away 
Never sees the light of day 
Shares a space with odds and ends 
In box of " things to give away" 
Fleece once of snow flake white 
Now has stains of crimson red 
Came from a broken heart 
Oh! how Tarny bled 
So if you find a little bear 
Slightly stained in red 
May not be a teddy 
But this Tarnished Knight instead 

Copyright © Donald Eissler | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Desert near Ajo, AZ

The Desert near Ajo, AZ
Funky town.  Got to go. Drive up a road--couple a blocks from the Plaza. Road curves becomes dirt. Hard dirt—eroded dirt. Not a pleasant place for a car. Out in the desert as fast as walking through a door. Saguaros poked up everywhere. Three types of Chollas threaten. Jumping, Teddy Bear and the tame Cane. The Teddy Bear amused Zelda. She had batches of spines in her mouth and all four feet. I grabbed a rock and knocked them off. I pulled the barbs out accompanied by soft yips. She went bounding away to the next mess of spines. I woke just before dawn everything was rugged, but the sun was not blocked except by the horizon. Warthogs, those instruments of war—were still plying the sky, but they were high, high and could not be heard. Only the birds. Nothing else. Not a thing. My relations with the others are awkward at best. Harry was no problem, but I had a feeling, he was miffed. I know his wife was, as was mine. Something about talking with no concern for others.  “You just go on and on and on. You don’t listen! You are a complete asshole,” Sue said.

Copyright © hiram lewis | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |


Holiday Season is almost near
Christmas rush which you can hear
Beautiful lights seen everywhere
It can be felt in the air anywhere..

But still I don't have a Xmas gift for you
I'm not sure if you wanted it too
How I wish I know what to give
Something that you will be appreciative.

I wish I have the magic powers
To make the reindeers run thereafter
As the elves too busy packing
What Santa may carry for you and bring.

I wish I can put Lapland in a box
A place where the Snow Queen rocks
And where Santa and the elves live
Even those reindeers, I wish I can give.

But they're an impossible wish
A wish I hope I can accomplish
A gift I want to give to make you smile
Even just a little and only for a while.

Merry Christmas to you my dear
And A Happy New Year too.. Cheers!

Copyright © Anna Lo | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |



Seven years I’ve been waiting for
A Christmas with you I wish for
Just like the other years that passed by
My wish for Christmas never gone by

A thought bothered my mind
How do you feel fine?
How do I feel fine?
If it breaks your soul it breaks mine.

Everything you have to sacrifice
A tear drops in your eyes
I wish I could make it dry
But I too can’t stop myself to cry

I hope he will grant my wish
If not now, maybe next year
I would still be waiting here
The same wish that I wished.

Copyright © jaycel frances tamayao | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Present for christmas

Oh what fun its  going to be shopping,In a joke shop for the clown of a poet.   
Can you guess who deserves a whoopee cushion. 
No-one but the clown of P.S. Jack  Ellison. 
Who turns my smiles to full on laughter.  
Hope your not blamed for the noise it emits

Today I am looking for something special. 
For the lady that always says nice things to one and all. 
Encouragement is her midde name.  
So here I am looking, for the perfect jewel on a chain,  for one of P.S. jewels Anne -Lise Andresen you are there for everyone, so I thought an amethyst footed the bill

This present is for Vienna, this was the hardest of all,  
She is  so much a lady I didn't want to fail.  
Perfume seemed the answer, not too heavy but a hint of spice.
 It will  match her poetry and  comments, hope she will like it.
Thought Charisma, was  the perfect  name.

Next I have chosen to buy something small for Poet Destroyer, 
ha ha with a name like  that i thought of something sharp and violent.  
But no this p.d. Is a  lamb.  
So I have  bought her a scarf  long and  fluffy so she can huddle in  it.
As she contemplates her next contest.

Finally,  oh my I have left this present  til last, 
not sure of  his tastes and dislikes, 
well I looked at a pen but thought  no 
thats not right.  He uses a computer to do his writes.  
Then I saw it the advert for a  balloon ride,  so up up and away will go "the scribe."

Well thats  5 pressies for sure. Hope they will  all suffice,  
cos thy were all bought with thoughtfulness. 
Have fun one and all. 
If I haven't bought for you, your next on my list.  
Come next fall.

Copyright © Seren Roberts | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |



Santa Claus stripped off his beard and red suit 
And left the show in the officers’ mess
Pulling the last tiny pieces of cotton wool from his stubbled chin
As he ran to his position 

At the end of the starboard bow catapult of the Carl Vinson
Eighty feet above the stormy grey Arabian Sea     
He watched as far off down the flight deck 
The final touches manoeuvred the F22 into the cradle
Its ordnance today a hundred kilogram fragmentation device 
For a rebel bunker in Afghanistan an hour’s flying time away
A surprise delivery for them;
The salt wind whipped the last cotton from his face.

Then his thumb pressed the green all-clear button  
Engine screamed to maximum and the catapult released
The flying load into the grey sky. Another successful delivery.
He checked his area of the mechanism after the aircraft blurred past

And hurried back inside to finish his Christmas dinner
Merry Christmas Santa, they all yelled as he came in again.

Copyright © Sidney Beck | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |


How should we really celebrate Christmas
Only in our own special individual ways
Should we lift Him up this day feeling good
With only our heartfelt words of praise

Should we try to make ourselves feel well
By celebrating It only in a worldly way
Or should we make Christmas a lifestyle
Emulating how He lived his life each day

Though He walked many weary miles long ago
With little of the worldly things many need
Where he walked you’ll still find his footprints
For all humankind to see after many centuries

His hands reached out touching and healing many
Never asking for a worldly payment in return
Only that we should honor His heavenly Father
Receiving from His Spirit priceless wisdom learn

Our Lord is selflessly humble in His nature
Hoping we might learn to emulate Him over time
Desiring us to be a true blessing to others
While sharing His love which seals and binds

We should help the poor and needy as He would.
Never turning our eyes from where the sick may lay
We should help the elderly and fatherless among us
While the homeless we should clothe and feed always

We should never turn from the children around us
Embracing them with the fullness of our hearts love
For in doing these acts of kindness we honor Him
Who came among us an eternal blessing from above

We should visit those locked away in prisons
Letting each know for them we still care and pray
While the widows we should honor and help them
Bringing a consistent love in their lives to stay

God does not judge another’s outward appearance
Casting none away because of their ethnicity
For He loves everyone who lives in this world
Giving all who come to him salvation’s opportunity

We must love our brothers and sisters as ourselves
While casting away hints of our former selfishness
We should also honor our fathers and mothers daily
Embracing them with our loves most wholesome kiss

For Jesus is much more than only our Lord and Savior
Whose birth we celebrate and honor Christmas day
His life is a perfect example how we should live
Helping others to taste His grace in numerous ways

Follow the excellent example how He lived his life
Creating priceless memories in another’s each day
Sharing selflessly His tremendous blessing of love
Making life better for others in many awesome ways.

Copyright © Wendell Brown | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Spirit of Christmas

John and Bath, short for Bathsheba Adams, were quite a pair.  Nothing ever got them down, except maybe an occasional cold.  Even then she would take hers out into the cold winter day of the back parking lot of the slum tenement building.  Where, there, she would nudge three of the fifteen cats trying to climb her double tattered blue jeans, out of the way, in order to stand and offer her cold up to God, seeing that it was all she had to offer Him and really she would be grateful, as well as giving up her only possession.   She often asked God why He didn’t seem inclined to come and keep them company, because she believed in Him heart, body and soul and talked to him constantly because John just got tired of listening.  She and John loved each other and no other.  She hadn’t worked steadily in Lord knows when.  John on the other hand got hurt on the job just before he was vested in company rights and the pitiful settlement he received was long gone.  He was left as barely good company for Bath, telling her over and over to just wait ‘til “he gets back on his feet” literally.  But that is not an option any longer, so Bath feels the need to keep him company. They really only had what you might call one vice.  That being because you might say they were wasting good money for no good reason.  They religiously bought two, one dollar lottery tickets every day that passed.  Well, there it was, the day before Christmas and Bath didn’t have money but for one ticket.  Well, she hotfooted down through Chinatown because there were still barbers there who would buy hair and she wanted to give John a special lottery ticket for Christmas.  The deal done she was cold as the mischief and begging God not to let her sinus get worse as she headed through the light rain for those lottery tickets.  John, meanwhile was hobbling down to get his ticket.  She always insisted that he walk to the corner himself so if he won he would feel like he had bought the ticket.  The rascal stopped and sold his crutch.  Can you belive, for $1 he sold his crutch.  Well, to cut to the chase, some friends carried him home after he bought the ticket.  Beth came in and after a bowl of soup, they had a prayer and wished each other merry Christmas and exchanged the two tickets which were the gifts.  Well, my story ends here.  I'm not going to tell you one or both won the lottery.  But in the spirit of Christmas I will say they lived quite long, and they were very happy while they lived. 

Copyright © Charles Henderson | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |

Christmas is Real

When we consider the losses and grief,
if we arrived at the manger.
Then Christmas is real...

If one nation is relieved by another,
even if we bury our dead.
If we arrive at the manger then
Christmas is real.

If in prayers, we bond with the hurting
world on a global basis.
Erases the fears and arrives at the
Then Christmas is real.

Christmas is real when each of
mankind reaches out with love
to another.
The reflection of his eyes will
show from the manger.

God Bless all the troops serving this Christmas.
350th Mobile Public Affairs Detachment

AR RAMADI, Iraq - "I'll be home for Christmas" are the final words I said to my mother as
I made my final call to her last spring while I was on my way to Iraq. We agreed never to
say "goodbye." I stated a similar claim to my wife. "Goodbye" has a finalization connotation.

"I'll be home" is a statement of confidence.

Five unexpected extensions later and we're still here. It's Christmas in the desert for us.

Military bases during the holidays are loathsome.

Copyright © Peggy Bertrand | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry |



Christmas trees eight feet tall,
Some bigger still.
Colored bulbs to warm the heart,
It gives the child a thrill.

Trees on both sides of the altar,
When altars were marbled art.
The tabernacle in the center,
Crosses not far apart.

Church ceilings were painted then,
A beauty to behold.
Angels, clouds and cherubim,
The holy story told.

Sometimes I'd sneak inside,
Lay down by the first pew.
The magnificence of a small town church,
Ceilings and walls with a view.

When the organ played and people sang,
A new world opened here.
This is truly Christmas,
I was so proud to be near.

No jeans or shorts or T Shirts,
Even children dressed the part.
Celebrating the Christmas season,
Amidst magnificent art.

Ladies wore pretty dresses,
Men with a suit and tie.
Praising God dressed in their finest,
Christmas music could make one cry.

Alas, it's but a memory,
Of small towns so long ago.
We still love you dear Lord Jesus,
But why it changed we do not know.


Copyright © Raymond Morgan | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

We Believe In Christmas

We Believe In Christmas

We believe in Christmas,
Though it may give some pause.
The special day of Jesus,
Not of Santa Claus.

What an awesome thing to ponder,
We are the lucky ones.
That God should send a Savior,
His Own Beloved Son!

The music of the season,,
Will fill your heart with joy.
The sound of heavenly angels,
Announce the baby boy.

Our homes are filled with laughter,
The lights they shine so bright.
As Peace and Love and Joy,
Greet this special night.

We gather all together,
Coming from near and far.
Families, friends and strangers,
Remember the special star.

We were born as sinners truly,
It is an act of God.
But sins were soon forgiven,
And this Christmas may we pause.

May you find the grace of Christmas,
To guide your daily lives.
The Spirit of Love in Jesus,
Given by God so wise.

We need the love of Christmas,
To fill our heart and soul.
Mid trials and tribulation,
God makes the broken, whole.

May the spirit of Christmas guide you,
And fill your life with joy.
Not because of Santa,
But for that Special Boy.


Copyright © Raymond Morgan | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

I am deserted aged man

I am deserted aged man,
Searching something,
Fills my lonesome life;
Sitting in chair outside bungalow,
With 4 luxury rooms and 5 maids;
Surrounded by virgin mountains,
All greenery exhilarating view;
fluttering cool dancing lake,
making vibrant teasing sound;
birds sitting on tree too don't spare,
Sing a song " O' lonely lovelorn man,
impish world isn’t for you;
It's for couple live in love;
We watch you sit all alone watching us,
We sing and revel in pair;
Cool breeze too attacking me,
Says, you are so cool,
Bring someone who warms you up; 
you lonely worth no mountains, 
it’s a heaven meant for family man;
You can't savor nature's bliss,
unless U’r happy man;
promising thoughts blew my mind,
I have no one share my thoughts,
In this old age, 
have no one I can live for;
Not even kids, 
they send greetings full of stupid quotes,
And say thank you papa, 
you are inspiration of life,
In all occasions receive 
junk greeting cards,
Sometimes dump them In waste bin,
I lived for wife and for kids,
Did not remarry was a mistake;
life is Sahara totally dry;
In old age no one wants,
How long carry old age curse;
Many aged suffer, 
severe life worst than me;
they dump aged in old age home, 
send rubbish greetings,
Happy birthday, father’s day,
Happy Christmas happy new year, 
sparks pain of already injured; 
World is mean live or not, 
They don't care; 
Greeting cards are no worth, 
You stupids don't know, 
Aged man only needs, 
Someone listen the story I have; 
we aged need no much, 
but good memories and
a glimpse of kids to live rest of life...

Copyright © sadashivan nair | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Christmas Poem (For Lyn, et al)

...Have occasioned
I think to have been decor-
rating The Tree, it's 
piney quills & tines   
dressing in glassy festoons
weightless baubles of 
tins-led Christmas-candy
colors, like porcelain 
fragile-fine, hooked canes
& dangled barber-pole-paean
peppermint-stick Memories
of savored hangon 
trinkets & heirlooms
looming like a twinkling 
tapestry 'round 
wreaths of snowy popped-corn
dangling - "No, darlings, that's not 
for eating..."  Yes, I 
have occasioned the 
rows of bubbling light-tubes 
like glowing chains of 
warm caterpillars 
inching-on toward the Manger's 
Star of a chrysalis 
Christmas Joy to Light-
Up the World!  Oh Yes, I have 
occasioned The Tree 
Breathing in Ecstasy...
And the Wonder, of this from
a Guy whose Imprimatur 
might have been

"And so, as Tiny Tim observed, G-D bless Us, Every One!" 
(" A Christmas Carol").  And...

A "...Merry Christmas to All, and to All a Good Night!" 
(Clement Clarke Moore, "Twas The Night Before Christmas").


Copyright © H MANTEL | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry |

Take me Back to the Time

Take me back to a time when have a Pepsi was for merry people at Christmas,
When General Electric fairy lights hung on real trees and pine needles fell,
Father Christmas smoked Pall Mall cigarettes because they were the smoothest,
A present of Tupperware for your mum was the very best present in the world.

Back to a time when Lional train sets made a man of a boy and a boy of a man,
Sammy Davis took Alka Seltzer as it eased his holiday headaches making him well,
Where Tide washing powder made every husband the most smartest man in every town,
And another happy chubby Father Christmas drank Coca Cola because it was the best.

A time when lorries slowly drove along roads selling wood for Christmas real fires,
A new Hoover would take care of any mess that was caused by the most crowded party,
Carlings Red Cap beer was the perfect drink for the perfect party with no hang overs,
And Crushed Rose Lipstick and transformed every woman from a house wife to a princess.

Woman should gain weight stop being skinny and tired with a plan that made you fat,
But the best of all were cock-eyed, cross-eyed glasses that made your eyes look normal,
And Woolworth's was the shop to buy all your Christmas presents to delight your family,
But for a young boy the best present he could ever get in his life was a new bicycle.

Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |


The train makes its way
Over the trestle bridge.
Fast as a missile.
its whistle blows loud and long.
People wrestle with luggage.
I say to myself..hurry, hurry!
Can't be late. 
through the gate others and I  go.
Nothing can compare.
To going home...

Copyright 2011 JohnnyPaul Davis

Copyright © JohnnyPaul Davis | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Poem for Christmas

December, look outside and watch the young they believe in Father Christmas,
Clear sharp, bright days brace the nerves, standing under mistletoe and holly,
A feeling of pleasure lives in our heart our lungs some go for a sleigh ride
Splendid heavens, stars, full moons in the distance ring the bells of St. Mary

Snow falls in abundance frost makes the world so quiet on a white Christmas,
Magnificence ice bound rivers they come to life with sliders and sleigh riders,
Farmers with all his corn in his work done his cattle sleep in heavenly peace,
He calls his friends and have jolly dinners all sing a song about three kings.

Sounds of the flail is his music in the market there is a little drummer boy,
He sees his sheep are well tended they walk over the fields they jingle bells,
The animal family of the farmyard, are well tended in this winter wonderland,
All are busy cutting hay, chopping straw and children make frosty the snowman.

Friends meet and shake hands and tell each other to have a very merry Christmas,
As the people in the village go to bed they say goodnight wish all peace on earth,
As Christmas gets nearer we all agree it is the most wonderful time of the year,
Snow falls then hardened by a thick frost the animals sleep on this silent night.

Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |


This Christmas I want to be,
The symbol of a Christmas tree.
The symbol of love, hope and goodness,
As the past years have been full of darkness.

This Christmas I want to be,
The joy brought by a Christmas tree.
The joy that fills the emptiness and pain,
The joy that saturates the exosphere as rain.

This Christmas I want to be
The togetherness brought by a Christmas tree.
The unity that knits families together,
And the bond that keeps families stronger,

This Christmas I want to be,
The smile brought by a Christmas tree,
The smile that radiates people’s faces,
And inundates families and different races.

This Christmas what will you be?
I hope you can also choose to be something to me.
Be to someone a Christmas tree,
And at least this Christmas, let’s fill people with much glee.

This Christmas I want to be,
The salvation of a Christmas tree.
The birth of a sacred virgin’s child,
As the future savior so meek and mild.

This Christmas I want to be,
The optimism of a Christmas tree,
Putting all the bad things behind us,
We can look forward to a future were love will always find us.

This Christmas I want you to be,
The special thing you will like to give to me.
Be the gift and the nicely adorned treasure,
That can surprise my heart without measure.


Copyright © Jacob Osae | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Futuristic Christmas

A New King?
The future Ebenezer Scrooge will be clever and unkind, but not that bright. Will he try to rule as king of kings, and put out all the Christmas lights? Or will some politician consider it wasteful, thinking he’s always right? Some will seek to band the holiday; hearts will become cold as ice.

No more Christmas Trees?
Will The Power of  Mr. Green be in full force within a few short years?
Indeed, he will think it’s his duty to clean the planet  from ear to ear.       Some, wondering what will happen next, will have realistic fears.
Traditional people, and especially kids, will be brought to tears.

Help!  I think I'm Lost!
Santa Clause will be forced to modernize and make changes to his GPS.
Santa, Rudolph, and the newly acquired Solar Mobil will run their fastest.
Santa will continue his timely deliveries, trying to do his very best.

Where Are The Roasted Chestnuts?
But the environmental laws will shut down the use of fire places.
So St. Nick will be like a bird searching, but  unable to find his nest.
He won't be shut down, but he will be forced to operate with more stress.

Dim Those Lights, Or Turn them off!
The city lights on shopping nights will be dimmed to save energy.
Businesses will be forced to offer the best sales of the last century.
But some famous stores will close, and move into a whole new industry.
And profitable businesses will no longer succeed with their latest gimmickry.

Not To Worry!!!
But not to worry, because Christmas Day will prevail, giving new life and meaning to the real reason.  Merchants will grow weary operating business as usual, and introduce new and better ways.  No longer will people be injured or trampled to death chasing sales on Black Fridays.  Loving parents and other good people will still be happy and rejoice in The Holy Season.
11262015 PS Contest:  A Futuristic Christmas; Mystic Rose, sponsor

Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |


The best poem of all TIME HAS 
 An all time greatest ever has not 
Yet been written.
This does not  permit you to sit
You should  stroll gently soothing 
Your soul while listening to 
Nature speak  with the crinklng rasping
Voice  Of autumn' s  fallen leaves.

The best poem?  The CHAMPION  MAY
exist  as a DIFFERENT, a foreign 
Tongue.  It might  be sitting  on a 
Shelf  in Zimbabwe,  Egypt or  Spain.
Whats more  it could be  in production 
This very minute.

Even of the  SMALL  hand of  a
Prodigious child. What is it to write 
A poem.  Truly, it is BORN OF
Emotion.  Tears  and sweet
Sweat  Of devotion.
A fire place with flames of 
Hot coco mixing.
Went a worth while cheerful day
Gliding now FADE.
The best poem should consist of
Much imagery.

And simultaneously be bright  then gloomy
In corners of the HEART it should  stay
Cozy in parts as it warms the frigid soul.
Maybe CUDDLY KITTENS  should set 
It's mood.
As the coldest winter blowing.
Those kittens at  LAST  have found a
Home and knowing the wealth of love

What is the greatest champion,  unknown?
Must it be an eternal secret?
Oh, a stellar ambiance on a CHRISTMAS
MORNING.  AN authentic BEACON.
ALL friends and family a festive relief.

It is all done, now the night has come and
Newly  BORN.
The ambiance lay SEDATE  and satuated 
With lightly tasting Nog and rum.

What is the greatest ever?  Maybe it
Does not yet exist.
If ever a living poem did persist.
How will it be perceived?
As pleasant on a crumpled list?

Copyright © VAL BROOKLYN Rogers BLK PANTHER | Year Posted 2016